Black Island
by ReluctantSlashFan
Summary: A phone call, a boat, an island, and a ghost. What could possibly go wrong? Set after Bloody Mary.
1. Chapter 1

**A few of my page breaks disappeared so I am reposting.**

**I own nothing**

**SUPERNATURAL**

Julia knew the local legends, grew up hearing the stories, but still felt a thrilling swoop in her stomach when her sister's boyfriend Todd said, "I'm bored. Let's go to Black Island."

The boat was Todd's dad's boat: a small speedboat that barely fit the three of them. Her sister kept flashing Julia nervous glances, obviously wondering why they agreed to the adventure. Julia shrugged, looking at Todd, who was steering them toward a looming island.

The island was abandoned, looking almost uncharted, sitting in the middle of a river. The locals never went there, they were too afraid, and the few who did never came back. Or, that's what everyone said. There was no real proof, and most kids were caught before they could reach the wooded landmass.

"Here we are," Todd announced as the boat thumped against the island. He turned it off, pocketing the keys, and jumped onto shore. He extended his hand to Janice, Julia's sister, and helped her onto land. He promptly walked away seconds later, allowing Julia to get off the boat by herself.

"Chivalry's not dead, you just have to be sleeping with it," Julia mumbled as she landed on the dirt. She walked away from the boat, quickly following her sister and Todd. She was surprised they weren't all over each other; it seemed like that was the only thing they ever did.

Half the time she was stuck guarding the car while they did things that would make Virgin Mary blush. Instead of guarding them, however, she spent the time hanging out at nearby establishments. After guarding them for so long she knew exactly how long _it_ lasted. It was sad she knew that at all, but what could she really do?

"Did either of you bring a flashlight," Julia called and received a shrug from Todd and a soft, "No," from Janice.

"I might have something," she murmured digging in her coat pocket. Besides her phone, which wasn't charged, she found three quarters and a gum wrapper. "Guess not," Julia whispered.

"We don't need a flashlight," Todd said quietly. "We've got the moon." He was right, the moon was full and shined above them illuminating a path. Putting his arm around Janice, he said, "Let's go find the guy's house." They began walking, every step cracking twigs or crunching leaves.

Julia stood still for a moment, watching them continue walking. She was starting to regret agreeing to this escapade. No one had stepped foot near the house-that she knew of-since Jeremy died. People had said Jeremy died there, died in the house, but that was never proven either. The only thing she knew for sure was the house had been set on fire. And that it sounded extremely creepy and highly dangerous.

A shiver ran up her spine as the wind began to blow, the trees swayed with the sudden airstream. She glanced around, frighteningly aware of the lack of cracking sticks and crunching leaves, of footsteps in general.

"Janice, Todd," she called waiting for them to answer. Nothing followed. So, she tried again, "Janice! Todd!" still nothing. She started ahead, expecting one of them to jump out from behind a tree-most likely Todd while Janice laughed behind him. Instead, she found no trace of either one of them.

"Guys, this isn't funny," she said her breath coming in quicker gasps. What she heard next made her stop breathing all together. A loud, high pitched scream filled the air before cutting off abruptly.

"Hello," she called her voice a mere whisper. A second, much deeper scream, answered her. Her heart was thudding in her chest, her eyes stinging with tears. "Janice." she whimpered looking around. "I…I'm serious. I…I'll tell Mom." She knew she sounded six, but she was scared.

"Julia," someone whispered, or was it the wind? A stick cracked behind her causing her to whirl around. There was no one, just the river and the boat. "Julia." She turned in a circle, still seeing nothing.

"Hello," she called shaking from head to foot.

"Boo," a voice said directly behind her. She turned slowly, a fog of breath escaping her lips, and nearly collapsed. A tall, bearded man stood inches from her. He had blood all over his head, the liquid dripping onto his already soaked white shirt. He was holding a bat, red staining the wood, lightly tapping his open palm with it. His blue eyes were two pairs of ice cold balls, searing into her soul. She'd never seen him before, but a small part of her brain screamed that it was Jeremy Black.

"W…What…" her voice was weak, a mere gust of air between her teeth. Black's pale lips turned upward in a smile, the smile as cold as his eyes. The last thing Julia saw was the bat swinging at her…

_**SUPERNATURAL**_

**2 days later…**

_The bed was soft beneath his back, his eyes were closed. He was enjoying the moment of silence, allowing the past couple of days to float to the back of his mind for the time being. He was drifting off when he felt something drip onto his head. _What the hell_, he thought opening his eyes. What he saw made his breath catch in his throat._

_ "NO!" he shouted watching as Jess burst into flames. Her eyes were on him, face frozen in fear and pain. Despite the situation she still managed to squeeze two words out of her mouth, "Why Sam?"_

Sam jerked awake, heart thudding against his chest. He wiped furiously at the two tears that managed to escape, taking a deep shuddering breath. He glanced over at his brother, curled over on his side and oblivious to what was going on. The moon, from the open curtain, caught his pale face causing Dean to turn onto his other side.

Sam checked his watch, surprised to see he had gotten at least three hours of sleep. _It's a start,_ he thought pushing the covers off himself. He stole another glance at Dean, happy his brother was asleep. Sometimes Dean's hovering really bugged Sam. His constant nitpicking, asking if he were okay, wanting to know what secret he had used to summon _Bloody Mary_.

That was a conversation Sam didn't want to have. Both of them had had it drilled into their heads, from a young age, that the supernatural wasn't something to be messed with. Sam managed to break free of that belief, had actually asked questions. Whereas Dean-single-minded, revenge driven Dean-saw everything inhuman as evil, and to tell him about these dreams…visions…powers would start a chain reaction Sam didn't want to experience. So he kept mum, hoping they were just nightmares of a perfectly rational fear that came true.

But as always, when he attempted to convince himself he was not clairvoyant, the 'came true' part hit him. Jess's death, a death he had dreamt about for days before hand, had happened; had occurred exactly as he had seen it in his dreams. _God, why is this happening to me_, he aimed at the ceiling. He didn't get an answer.

Sam sat up, swinging his legs off the bed. His feet touched the cold wooden floor, a shiver rippling through him. He pushed himself to his feet, wrapping his arms around himself. He headed toward the door, opening it to reveal the night and an abandoned parking lot.

The old motel hadn't been used for a while, especially when the only car they had seen, since their arrival, was their own. Dean hadn't wanted to waste money on another motel room, since they were only stopping for the night. _Ah, the joys of squatting_, Sam thought stepping back and closing the door.

He headed toward his bag, intending to get dressed, but froze when he a heard a ringing. He glanced around, trying to determine where the ringing was coming from. Draped across an old, dilapidated chair was Dean's blue jacket, and the ringing seemed to be coming from that.

He crossed the room, picking the jacket up. He dug in the pockets, finding the phone shoved in the inside pocket. He checked the ID, Jefferson's name looking back at him.

He flipped the phone open and said, "Jeff?"

"Sam? Holy shit, Sam? Sam Winchester? What's it been, like five years?"

"Something like that," Sam replied with a smile on his face. He remembered the last time they had seen Jefferson Michaels. John had gotten in an argument with him over something completely stupid-like how most of John's disagreements started-and punches had been thrown. It stopped when Dean, always the mediator, tried to step in and ended up punched in the face. Neither John nor Jeff could tell who hit Dean, but one of them did and the fight instantly came to a halt. They hadn't spoken to Jefferson since.

Smile no longer on his face, Sam cleared his throat and said, "What's up?"

"I have a message for you," Jefferson responded sobering up, too. "It's from…" he trailed off almost as if he were unsure how to continue.

"Who Jeff? Who's it from?" Sam asked already knowing the answer. It had to be from him, no one else would give his kids a message via someone-or something-else.

"Your dad," Jeff confirmed Sam's suspicions. "He called last night, asked me to relay something, and gave me Dean's cell number."

"And you just agreed?" Sam was frustrated with his father. The man could easily give his kids jobs, but he couldn't take ten minutes to answer his damn phone. Even if it was to reassure the two people who really cared about him that he was okay. He begrudgingly had to admit that calling Jefferson was confirmation of his well-being, but it still wasn't enough.

"I asked him why he wasn't calling Dean himself, but he hung up to avoid answering. You know your dad; he'd rather shoot his foot off than share anything remotely close to his feelings."

"I know someone else like that," Sam muttered glancing over at his sleeping brother. Dean could be gushing blood from a giant hole in his side and still try to convince Sam he was perfectly okay.

"I'm a silent sufferer," Jeff' protested, misinterpreting Sam's words. The younger hunter rolled his eyes, sighed, and said, "What's the message, Jeff?"

"There's an island in Michigan…"

"An island? In Michigan? Wow, that's an awesome message."

"I'm not done, smartass," Jeff retorted but Sam could still hear the smile in his voice. "It's a small landmass in the middle of a river. Down in a small town called Firestone. I did a little research and the island is reportedly haunted by a spirit named Jeremy Black. Legend has it he was killed and buried somewhere on that island. Most locals won't go near it because whoever steps foot on the island is never seen again. But that's just the legend.

"There was, however, a boat found on the island yesterday, owned by James Fairborn. His son, his son's girlfriend, and her sister are missing. Police scoured the island, but haven't found them. They did, however, find blood splattered across the ground. They're getting the samples tested…"

"How much you wanna bet it's the blood of those kids?" Sam shook his head, not really wanting to deal with another spirit so soon after Mary Worthington. His nightmares were bad before he summoned Mary, now they were worse. When he wasn't plagued with Jess asking him 'Why' every night, he was often visited by himself demanding to know why he didn't say anything sooner. Why he didn't protect her? Why? Why? Why? He didn't know why, not really, and he really wished people-either in a dream or in real life-would stop asking him that particular question.

"I'm almost sure of it. Look, that's all I got. You wanna check it out, have at it. If you don't, I ain't doing anything…"

"No, we'll check it out," Sam replied glancing over at his brother, again. Hair sticking up, bloodshot green eyes giving him a curious look, Dean had officially joined the land of the awake.

"Check what out," Dean asked after clearing his throat. Sam held up a finger, telling him to wait a minute.

"Tell Small Fry I say 'hi."

"I will," Sam reassured the older hunter.

"And remember, despite your daddy's flaws he will always love you boys. He may be avoiding you to protect you." Jefferson said good-bye after that and Sam snapped the phone shut.

"What's up?" Dean asked rubbing sleep out of his eyes.

"We have a job," Sam replied putting Dean's phone back in his coat pocket.

"Who was on the phone?" his brother pushed the covers off himself, quickly getting to his feet.

"Jefferson," Sam replied heading toward his bag.

"What'd he want?" Dean asked walking toward his own bag.

"Dad called him." the younger Winchester glanced at his brother, waiting for any type of reaction. Instead he got the patented Winchester 'emotionless mask'-the exact same mask that Dean had perfected by the age of six. "Dad gave him a location and asked him to relay the message to us."

"Where are we headed," Dean questioned pulling on a pair of jeans. Just once Sam would love to know what his brother was thinking. The emotionless crap got real old real fast. Sometimes Sam contemplated grabbing his brother by the shoulders and shaking him until he said something remotely true about his feelings. Of course, he was no better. Keeping his guilt towards Jess's death locked up, sealed in a box deep in the back of his head, wasn't exactly sharing and caring either.

"Sam?" Dean's voice was like a whip, sending Sam back to the present. "Where are we going?"

"Michigan. A small town in Michigan."


	2. Chapter 2

**As I stated last chapter, just reposting. Don't mind me...**

**SUPERNATURAL**

Firestone had a population of just over a thousand-according to the sign they had exactly 1,046 people. Well, more like 1,043 since three of its residence were quite possibly dead. Dean would never say those words out loud, of course, as he did not want to hear the famous Sammy Winchester scoff of disapproval. Plus, that would be the rudest thing he could say to anyone. Yes, he said some questionable, and eyebrow raising, type things but even he had a line. His dad didn't raise him to be an inconsiderate jackass to people-he just chose to be sometimes. And now was definitely not the time.

Just thinking of his dad filled him with frustration. He loved the man, he really did, but it was a tad ridiculous that he hadn't gotten a hold of either of them. He could write coordinates in his journal, send messages to friends to give to his sons, but he couldn't frigging call his sons to let them know he was okay. Hell, he could at least answer his fricking phone when they called. But Dean couldn't share that with Sam, there was already tension between his father and brother, so he'd just do the hunt and keep it to himself.

He had originally planned to head to the nearest boat rental place, sail across the town's river, and have themselves a little ghost hunt. But Sam told him it was reckless, stupid, and that they needed to get a few more details. He had retorted with a simple '_Jeff gave us the details, a ghost is haunting an island, let's go find it and send the thing to the great beyond.'_ To which his brother replied, "_Yeah, Dean, and where's the body again? We can't go around digging up every square inch of the place; we need to narrow it down. Which means, we have to interview a couple town's people."_

They had argued throughout the entire drive, an argument of epic proportions, ending in Sam's favor. He had flashed Dean his signature look-_damn puppy dog look can take over the world if it should choose to_-and they decided to interview a few of the town's folk, and what better place to start than the town diner. Plus, Dean was fricking starving and had to stop soon.

The place was smack in the middle of town: a huge, looming, white building. It had a peeling, green sign painted across the glass door stating the name:** Gerty's**. There was no parking lot, only a curb. A curb and a bike rack. The bike rack held three bikes, only one was chained to the metal frame.

"Dude, people in this place are begging to get robbed," Dean pointed out, nodding his head toward the rack. Sam rolled his eyes and pushed open the door. He headed toward the diner, Dean quickly following him.

"You don't agree," he hissed following his brother to the back of the diner. There were four other customers sitting in various places throughout the diner. Two were kids, in their late teens at the most, sitting in a booth next to the window. There was an older man, mid-to-late fifties, sitting at the counter looking into a cup of coffee. And a younger man sitting a few stools down from him, eating a piece of pie and chatting with a portly red head.

"No, Dean, I don't. People don't move here to 'get robbed' as you so bluntly pointed out. They move here to feel safe."

"And that's where the robbers get ya," Dean argued sitting with his back to the wall, facing the front door. "They wait for the people to have a false sense of security, wait for them to keep their doors unlocked once, and wham, bam thank you ma'am. They come home from work to find their doors wide open, their expensive stuff gone, and their dreams of the perfect town shattered. All because they trusted that the town was impenetrable to robbers."

"I'd hate to see you ever have kids," Sam said with a small smile and a shake of his head. Dean opened his mouth to comment, torn between denying he'd ever have kids and arguing that he would make a fantastic dad, when the red head bustled up to them, carrying a coffee pot.

She was fortyish, with grayish blue eyes. She smiled at the two brothers, not in a flirty type of way but in a motherly sort of way. Like she was surveying her own children, trying to figure out what exactly they had been talking about.

"I'm Gert," she said handing them each a menu she had had tucked under her arm. She offered them coffee, both brothers turning their cups over. She filled them, telling them refills were free. She was half turned when Dean, slapping on his best lady killer smile-flirting usually got him what he wanted-, said, "Hey, Gert? You own this place, right?"

"Yes," she replied facing him again. At his smile, she returned it with a '_cute, but I could be your mother_' smile in return. "Why do you ask?"

"Well, we heard of a local haunting…" Gert's smile faded fast, her head slowly shaking back and forth. She backed up a few paces, still shaking her head. She had gone pale, paler than any normal red head should be.

"Gert?" Sam asked timidly. He shared a quick glance with his brother, looking just as confused as Dean felt.

"I…I'll be right over there when y…your ready to order," the older woman said and scurried behind the counter, cutting off anymore questions they might have. They exchanged one last look, both silently agreeing that something definitely was up with the town.

_**SUPERNATURAL**_

As far as town interviews go, that was by far the worst Sam had ever been through. None of the town's folk were too keen on telling them anything about Jeremy Black. They were more than willing to tell 'reporters' all about the boring little town except the one interesting thing that had happened there in a long time. Not that someone getting murdered was all that interesting, on the contrary Sam would never quite understand what could push someone to take another life, but it did make Firestone a tad less dull.

"How could a town with a mildly interesting name have such a boring ass history," Dean commented sliding behind the wheel of his car.

"A tire name is interesting to you?" Sam asked curiously, ducking down to flash his brother a smile through the open door. An annoyed glare was shot back at him, Dean starting the car.

"Hey," a voice called out to them, making Sam turn around. They had just left the bar, six buildings down from the diner, and had been on the verge of heading to the nearest motel. The man walking toward them had been sitting in the shadows of the bar, and they had avoided him. Dean had been all for asking him questions, but Sam had talked him out of it. They dealt with a lot of creepy things in their lives making creepy people a deal breaker.

"Can we help you," Dean asked getting out of the car again. He rested his elbows on the hood, looking casual but still emitting a dangerous glint from his eyes. He was ready for a fight; it was as simple as that.

"I couldn't help but over hear your questions in there," the man commented running a hand across his bald head.

"I'm sure you couldn't," Dean commented pushing away from the car and walking around it, stopping next to Sam.

"Yeah, and I'd be willing to tell you whatever you want to know. I've lived here for my whole life, I was twelve when Black was killed, I can tell you what happened."

"Really?" Sam asked incredulously. In their line of work, they couldn't afford to trust people. Anyone could be anything these days. Shapeshifter, werewolf, creepy older guy looking for company: anything.

"Sure, I can."

"Why are you so keen on helping us," Dean questioned suspiciously. He was a people person when he chose to be, but Dean had the same trust issues every hunter had. It was all part of his complicated psyche.

"Don't want my help? Fine. I just thought I'd offer." The man made to turn back toward the bar, but Dean called him back.

"What happened?" he asked curiosity burning in his voice. Sam was curious, too. Jefferson had been vague on the details, just giving them the spirits name and what he was haunting. They needed to know more if they were going to find and burn Jeremy's bones.

"I'll be happy to tell you, if I can hitch a ride," the man replied gesturing toward their car. Sam was expecting his brother to say '_Thanks, but no thanks._' Expected him to refuse to let some stranger into the car, but he loved hunting almost as much as he loved his car and eventually agreed.

The older man introduced himself as Bernie Barns and told Dean to continue straight ahead until he said otherwise. He sat directly in the middle of the backseat, resting his arms on the back of the front seat and his chin in his arms, so he could be seen and heard. He took a slow, deep breath, and said, "Jeremy Black was born in the fall of '48. His father was the town drunk and thief Martin Baxter and his mother was the town's call woman…"

"She was a prostitute," Dean interrupted causing Sam to roll his eyes. Only Dean would be obligated to disrupt a story to elaborate on the existence of a hooker. Or a stripper. Or anything remotely close to a woman who will take her clothes off for money. It was just in his nature.

"That's generally what a call girl is called, Kid," the old man said wearily. "Her name was Edna Black. Baxter left town before Jeremy was born, leaving Edna to raise her son on her own.

"When Jeremy was eighteen, his great aunt died and left him the island in the middle of the town's river. Jeremy and his mother always got weird stares in town, so they both decided to build a house on the island and live there. They had an old row boat they would use to get supplies and for Edna to do her job.

"It was the summer of '68. Jeremy's mother, who had decided to retire from the call girl business, went out to 'entertain' one last client for old time's sake. There was this kid; his name was Percival Humphrey Davenport II…"

"Percival Humphrey?" Dean interrupted again. "His name was Percival Humphrey?"

"Yeah," Bernie grumbled sounding irked that he was disrupted again. "His name was Percival Humphrey."

"Who the hell names…" Sam threw his brother a look, cutting off the rest of his question. The younger Winchester wanted to hear the rest of the story and couldn't accomplish that with his brother's constant string of interruptions.

"Davenport," Bernie substituted for the kid's name, obviously trying to avoid any other intrusions, "was her last suitor. Or he would have been if he hadn't of attacked her. He forced himself on her, beat her, and dumped her onto the side of the road when he was done with her. She lay in a ditch for hours, it was late at night and no one was up, and was found by a neighborhood boy on his way to school.

"Before she died, still lying on the sidewalk, she grabbed the boys hand and pulled him to her. She whispered the name 'Davenport.' I don't know how Jeremy found out, but he did. And when he did he was livid.

"You see, Davenport Jr. had always had his eye on Edna Black. Jeremy knew this. And when he found out what his mother had said, he knew exactly which Davenport she was talking about.

"Three days after his mother death, Jeremy took a baseball bat and bashed Davenport Jr.'s head in. The town was in an uproar when they found his body, and there was no doubt who had killed Davenport.

"Instead of letting the police take care of Jeremy, Davenport Sr. and a few of his friends got in his boat and crossed the river. They arrived at Jeremy's house, each one carrying a bat similar to the one Black used on Davenport Jr. They kicked Jeremy's door in and attacked him.

"Once they were done, they buried his body outside of the cabin and burnt the place down. Or that's what the legends say anyway." Bernie leaned back in his seat and said, "Take a left up here."

"How do you know all this," Sam asked curiously.

"My daddy was the sheriff," Bernie replied with a shrug. "There was a lot of stuff I heard that I wasn't supposed to."

"Did Davenport go to jail at least," Sam asked aghast by the story. Not only was an innocent woman murdered (as much as he frowned upon prostitution, Edna Black still didn't deserve what happened to her) but so was her son. Yes, Jeremy did take matters into his own hands, but it still didn't excuse Davenport Sr.'s actions. He had no right killing Jeremy.

"There's a lot of stuff you can get away with if you know the right people," Bernie replied darkly. He, too, didn't agree with Davenport's actions. Dean had yet to say anything, his face a blank mask. If Sam didn't know him, he'd say his brother was sulking. But Dean just didn't sulk, there was something bigger going on with him

"That's not right," Sam grumbled glaring out the window. "H…he should have gone to jail!"

"A lot of people should be in jail and aren't. It's just the way life rolls sometimes," Bernie responded. "Take the next right." Dean complied, still not saying anything. His eyes were glued to the road, his expression still as blank as printing paper.

The rest of the ride was silent save for the occasional direction given by Bernie. It took a whole fifteen minutes to get to Bernie's place, an old camper shoved into the lowest corner of town. The river sat behind it, a boat tied to a tree. There was a looming island standing across the river, no doubt whose it was.

"Is that Jeremy's island?" Sam asked despite already knowing it was.

"That's Black Island," Bernie replied with a nod.

"Fitting," Dean finally spoke, his voice hoarse from lack of use. He turned to Bernie and said, "Can you get us over there?"

"O…over there?" Bernie questioned shifting from 'glad to share the town's grisly murders' to cautious town folk in ten seconds flat. "Why would you g…go over there? Ain't anyone been over there until recently. Those kids…those kids were the first in ten years. The police only scoured the edge of the island. They found blood."

"Yeah, we know," Dean said slowly losing patience. "Look, dude, we need a ride over there. You have a boat. If you don't want to take us we'll just borrow your boat…" the older Winchester let his voice trail off, letting the old man mull over the ultimatum Dean had given him. There was no doubt he loved his boat, it was an older looking speedboat-probably worth a lot of money-but he was hell bent on _not_ crossing the river to that island. Finally, after a few more seconds of internal struggle, Bernie took a deep breath and nodded. "I'll take you over there, on two conditions."

"Shoot," Dean replied gesturing for the older man to continue.

"I'm not staying and you have to stay the whole night. I'm not going over there until sunrise. Do we have a deal?"

Both brothers exchanged quick looks, a silent argument taking place between them. Sam flashed Dean a look saying: _All night? Another camping trip?_ Dean, in turn, threw a second look saying: _I know, but if it gets us over there…_ Sam sighed, but ended up nodding.

"Fine," the older Winchester agreed, nodding to the older man. "We agree."


	3. Chapter 3

**I know, I know, this chapter is a hell of a lot shorter than the other two, but I had to get it out. So, here is chapter three.**

**As you all know, I OWN NOTHING. Kripke has sole custody of these guys, as much as I wish they were mine they aren't. (BIG SIGH) oh well.**

**Thanks to everyone following this story, it's cool of you, and I hope to catch you in chapter four. Bye…**

***********************

Several things about this hunt bothered Dean. He didn't like the pure fact that some guy's mother had to pay to appease another guy's desires. He didn't like that Jeremy was killed for seeking justice for his mother's death-even if what he did was a tad rash. And he didn't like that Jeremy was still trapped, killing people. In fact, he hated that spirits decided to stick around. It made his job a heck of a lot harder having to clean up the spirits of people who just couldn't move on. Was it too much to ask for a ghost to just step into the light? _Or whatever the hell they do_, Dean thought wearily.

Bernie's boat headed toward the rapidly setting sun, disappearing from sight after a few seconds. Dean lost count of the number of times he had reminded the man to be there, at six-thirty. He did not want to spend any more time than he had to on the creepy, forest-filled island; if he could actually call it an island.

"Man, when I picture an island I picture a beach, two brunettes, me, and some alcohol. Not this…" he gesturing around the place, receiving an eye roll and a quick, "An island is a landmass with water on all sides. It doesn't necessarily have to be a beach," from Sam.

"Yeah, well a little less clouds and potential rain and a little more sun and palm trees would do just fine if you ask me," Dean mumbled. Sam, deciding not to respond, picked his back pack up off the ground and slung in across his left shoulder. He headed into the woods. Dean, grabbing his duffle and the weapons bag, quickly followed him.

"Get a look at those clouds, Sam. It looks like The Stay Puff Marshmallow Man blew up and peppered the sky with his innards." Dean glanced up as Sam did, grey clouds glaring down at them.

"It could also mean snow," Sam murmured looking back at Dean. There was a smile on his face, a forced one but still a smile, at the look Dean threw him. Neither one were particular fans of the S-word. In their books it was a swear word, worse than the F-bomb. It also made their jobs harder, especially when they had to dig bodies up. Winter brought hard grounds, grounds that took longer than the forty-five minutes it normal took-if they were working together. It also brought cold, which brought sickness, something they could, most definitely, NOT afford.

"If you jinx us I will punch you in the face," Dean grumbled getting a chuckle from his brother. He rolled his eyes and continued to follow Sam through the infamous Black Island.

"We need a game plan," Dean said after five minutes of walking.

"Okay, here's one. We find the body, burn the bones, and spend the rest of the night stuck on this frigging island," Sam suggested sounding bitter. It was no secret, they both hated camping. They hadn't exactly had the greatest times spending the night in the woods. There was the werewolf hunt of 1996. There was the Banshee job of 2000. Oh, and Dean couldn't forget the Windego not so long ago. The only upside to that one was meeting Hailey and helping her find her brother. Other than that they rarely had an upside, injuries always coming easier when they spent time outdoors. Nature just wasn't their friend.

"We could swim," Dean said shrugging his shoulders.

"Dean, it's probably forty-two degrees out, it took us twenty minutes to get here by boat, and I really don't feel like freezing my ass off."

"Come on Sammy, one night out here won't kill us," Dean said patting his brother on the chest and walking past him.

"It's Sam, and if you jinx us I will punch you in the face," Sam called back at him, using his brother's words and making Dean smirk. He turned around and said, "I'd like to see you try, Bitch."

"Jerk, and I could easily kick your ass."

"Sam, you couldn't kick my ass as a kid, I doubt you could now. Just because you decided to impersonate Sasquatch…" a stick snapped, cutting Dean off. He lowered his bags to the ground, kneeling to unzip the weapons' duffle. He pulled out two shotguns, tossing one to Sam who caught it easily.

They crept toward the sound, shotguns at the ready. Closing in on the area, a huge maple towering over them, they split up. Dean went left, Sam went right. They were silent, deadly machines ready to shoot whatever moved. Four steps left, now three, two, one. Dean jumped around the tree, just as Sam did, both pointing their weapons at…

The raccoon's eyes widened, the things tearing away from both of them. Dean hung his head as Sam chuckled, leaning against the tree. "We have officially lost it," Sam commented turning to watch the sun disappear completely beneath the horizon.

"Definitely," Dean said seconds before something collided with his head, sending him into a sea of black…

***********

**It's been a while since I have heard the Bitch/Jerk exchange between Dean and Sam. So, I decided to bring it back. I hope you liked it.**


	4. Chapter 4

**I realize how late this is. I mean I think I last updated this story at the beginning of Feb. maybe late Jan. It's March now. I have been working on other things while my imagination blew raspberries at this story and ignored it. What could I do? But now I am back…**

**Anyway, I realized something about this story. I introduced the rock salt shotguns too early. They didn't appear until episode seven: **_**Hook Man**_** and this is set after episode five: **_**Bloody Mary.**_** So, sorry about that but I have no plans to fix it. I like the rock salt shotguns and they are staying.**

**Anyway, I have to go. I own nothing, and here's hoping I hear from you guys and catch you in the next chapter.**

**I OWN NOTHING!!!!!!!!!!**

**PEACE…**

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DEAN," Sam exclaimed watching his brother collapse to the ground. Jeremy Black--or who Sam believed to be the ghost and who happened to be carrying a bat-smiled before rounding up to hit Dean again. Sam cocked his shotgun firing a round of rock salt into the ghost and watching him dissipate.

He rushed forward once he was sure Jeremy wasn't coming back, dropping to his knees next to his brother. A quick inspection told Sam all that he needed to know: Jeremy had hit Dean hard enough to knock him out but not kill him. Blood was slowly leaking from a gash at the back of the older Winchester's head, coating Sam's hand when he let it ghost across the wound.

"Okay, Dude, wake up," Sam said lightly tapping his brother face with his left hand while he dug a penlight from his pack with his right. He shined the light into his brother's eyes, the pupils shrinking slower than Sam would have liked, but shrinking nonetheless.

Despite proving his brother had a slight concussion, the light also achieved what Sam couldn't. His brother began to stir, a small groan escaping his lips. Dean tried to swat the light from his brother's hand, but Sam stopped him before he could succeed.

"Let go of my hand, Samantha," Dean snapped, opening his eyes.

"Sorry," Sam muttered his relief so over powering he was unable to use any of the retorts he had hanging on the tip of his tongue. He didn't want to think what would have happened if Jeremy swung just a tad harder, or if he was just a second too slow with pulling the trigger.

"Sam, you're still holding my hand," Dean grumbled glaring at the gesture like it had just offended his car.

"Right," Sam said letting his brother's hand drop to his side.

"Please say the ghost knocked me out and not some frigging broken branch." Dean pushed himself up, waving Sam's help off when his brother began to hover.

"It was Jeremy," Sam confirmed sitting back on his heels.

"And…?"

"And what, Dean?"

"Where is he?"

"Gone, for now," Sam replied pushing himself to his feet. "How are you doing?"

"Peachy," Dean mumbled standing, also, or attempting to. He was halfway up before he had to lower himself to the ground again.

"Peachy, huh?"

"Shut up," Dean snapped pulling his knees up and resting his head against his jean clad legs. "Just give me a moment, I'll be fine." He was quiet for a second before he turned his head, opening green eyes, and asked, "Are you hurt?"

"No, Dean," Sam sighed knowing the inevitable question would eventually be thrown into their conversation. "Jeremy didn't touch me."

"He was trying to take out the stronger one, of course." Dean threw his brother a smile, trying to pretend the whole ordeal was some kind of joke they should be laughing about.

Rolling his eyes, deciding it would be better to play along, Sam said, "Or, he could have been taking out the weaker one, first. Maybe he's a ghost who likes a little competition."

"Shut up," Dean repeated once again trying to push himself to his feet. He succeeded the second time, only needing to grab a nearby tree for a few seconds before he gained his balance.

"You ready," Dean asked glancing at Sam.

"Yeah," Sam replied grabbing his bag off the ground. He shrugged it onto his back, grabbed Dean's fallen shotgun, and quickly followed his brother back to where he had dropped his own duffle and the weapons' bag. He knew he was hovering, Dean's annoyed sighs were enough of a clue, but he'd rather hear an annoyed sigh than watch his brother collapse to the ground again.

"Are you enjoying the view, Francis? I've been told my ass is nice to look at," Dean commented causing Sam to roll his eyes and lightly punch his brother in the arm.

"My God, your narcissism astounds me," Sam replied sarcastically, a small smile on his face.

"_My God, your narcissism astounds me_," Dean mocked under his breath. Sam smiled wider, the little brother side of him always trying to find new ways to annoy Dean. It was childish, sure, but also kind of fun. Something Sam hadn't had a lot of since he left Stanford almost two months before hand.

"What the hell?" Sam nearly collided with his brother, unaware that he had stopped. He glanced around the area, recognizing it as where they had left Dean's bag and the weapons earlier, except, only Dean's duffle was sitting innocently in the dirt.

"Where're the weapons, Dude?" Dean asked glancing around.

"I have no clue, Dean," Sam replied copying his brother.

"The bag was right here, Sam." The older Winchester gestured to the exact spot the bag had been sitting.

"Yeah, I know."

"You don't think…"

"What? Jeremy's smarter than we thought," Sam asked glancing at his brother.

"I hate ghosts," Dean complained collecting his duffle. He slung it over his shoulder and began trekking through the woods.

"Dean, wait," Sam called chasing after his brother. They were screwed; neither brother had to say it out loud. Because the off chance that they came up with a plan, they really had no equipment to put the plan into action. _Yeah, screwed pretty much sums it up,_ Sam's mind tacked on against his will.

*********

**I promise the next chapter will be longer and updated quicker.**

**Bye…**


	5. Chapter 5

**Last repost (I hope)**

**Bye...**

**SUPERNATURAL**

In his life, Dean had hunted a total of fifty-eight spirits. Out of the fifty-eight: nine of them had tried to stab him, a couple dozen and a half threw him into something hard, four tried to shoot him, one tried to make him hemorrhage out his eyes and nose, fifty-six threw things at him, and every single one pissed him off in some way or another. But never had a ghost taken their weapons. It was infuriating when the supernatural changed the rules on them.

He trekked a few steps ahead of Sam, a pen light and a small flashlight the only means of light between them. He could barely see with both lights shining making tripping very possible. It probably wouldn't have been so bad if Sam hadn't been trailing him so close. Every time he stopped short, all six-feet-four-inches of muscle would ram into him and nearly make him fall. Twice he had to grab hold of a tree, once Sam steadied him, all three times were really unnecessary.

"Sam," Dean grunted when he stopped and his brother rammed into him a fourth time. "Do I need to give you the personal space speech, again?" Sam scoffed, but backed off a few inches. "Thank you…" Dean trailed off, something catching his eye when his tiny flashlight beam swept past it.

"Dean…?" he held a hand up, cutting off his brother. He started toward the object, stopping just short of it. There was a chance Jeremy was tricking them. Despite being a spirit he was very intelligent. So, using the butt of his shotgun, he nudged the object. It barely moved a few centimeters, but otherwise nothing happened. He stooped down, scooping the thing off the ground.

"What is it?" Sam whispered just behind him, his breath tickling the back of Dean's neck.

"A canister of salt," Dean muttered putting it into his bag.

"You don't think…" Sam trailed off, pushing past Dean and heading further into the woods.

"Think what?" Dean called quietly after him, jogging to catch up. He almost ran smack dab into his brother, feet from their original position. "What the hell?"

"This," Sam said handing Dean a collapsible shovel. "I think Jeremy is leading us somewhere."

"Hopefully to his remains," Dean grumbled placing the shovel next to the canister in his bag.

"Yeah, because he'll make it that easy," Sam retorted cocking his shotgun and shining his penlight into a clump of trees. "Let's just be careful."

"Oh, I wish I had thought of that," Dean said sarcastically. He pushed past Sam, leading his brother toward the clump of trees. Halfway there they found a bigger flashlight, the light flickering. Dean scooped it off the ground, hammering it against his hand. It flickered one last time and stayed on.

"Here," he said handing Sam his tiny flashlight and shining the bigger one in front of them. "I think there's something ahead." They continued in silence, both keeping their eyes peeled for Jeremy.

A foot and a half from the next object, Jeremy appeared directly in front of them. Dean made to fire at him, but the spirit was the quicker draw. He swung his bat at the older hunter, sending him backwards, in an attempt to dodge it, into his brother. Both fell to the ground, getting tangled in a mess of arms and legs. Dean felt his knee collide with his brother's mouth. Sam's elbow slammed into his stomach and knocked the air from his lungs in one great _**whoosh**_. It was fifteen seconds of confusion, then a gunshot went off and silence followed.

"Holy crap," Dean gasped out when he finally managed to get to his feet. He offered his hand to his brother, who took it. He pulled the younger, lankier hunter to his feet, glancing around for Jeremy.

"Did you shoot him?" he asked glancing at his brother, who was spitting blood onto the ground.

"Yeah, he was getting ready to swing his bat at you," Sam replied snatching Dean's sawed-off off the ground and handing it to him.

"Thanks, and sorry about the lip," Dean replied picking his fallen bag and flashlight up off the ground. They began walking again, more cautious than before, back to back. Neither had to verbally discuss the tactic, both coming to a silent understanding that, with the way the night was going, Jeremy was bound to try and creep up on them.

The object Dean had spotted earlier, before they were attacked, turned out to be a bottle of lighter fluid. He placed it inside his coat pocket, just in case it leaked. He figured it was better to clean one jacket then his entire wardrobe.

Ten minutes later, nearly all their stuff back in their possession-save for their second collapsible shovel and the packet of waterproof matches they normally used-the remains of Jeremy's cabin came into view. It would have been a cause for celebration, if it hadn't started to rain. It was more like a drizzle now, but Dean could tell Mother Nature was just working up to the great, fat drops that would pound on their heads and make the already dropping temperature drop further. Sometimes he really wondered if nature just hated him and his brother.

"Should we split up?" Sam asked taking in the remains. The place had been a small, two-story before it became a charred, ghost of its original self. Dean could spot the remnants of white shutters hanging from a broken window, could see the long forgotten flowerbeds against the house. It had been a home, a safe haven, a place where Jeremy and his mother could be themselves without the wary eyes of the town watching them. Now it was just depressing.

"Yeah," Dean said not liking the idea, but knowing it was the only thing to do, glancing around for a place to stash their stuff. "Stay in shouting distance. Call if you find anything," he said once they hide their bags in a clump of bushes.

"Fine," Sam replied and took off to the left. Dean glanced around, letting his EMF meter take in the area, making sure he wasn't being followed, and headed right.

He passed the front of the cabin, letting his flashlight sweep across the forest floor. It took him all of three seconds to realize that Davenport and crew weren't going to mark Jeremy's grave. After they murdered him, they probably picked the most random area to bury his body. It could take all night for them to find it.

He was just getting ready to go help Sam, when he heard his brother call, "Dean, come and look at this a sec." if he didn't know any better, he was pretty sure Sam's voice just came from the cabin.

Shaking his head, wondering what kind of geekboy type thing Sam had run into, Dean switched his EMF meter off, pocketed it, and followed his brother's voice. He had a feeling he wasn't going to care what it was, Sam having the habit of finding the most uninteresting things to do with any hunt.

Carefully, Dean climbed the steps. They used to be green, but age and fire had flaked the paint to mere specks. The front door was lying on the floor, someone obviously having kicked it in. The fire had blackened it to nothing, leaving the color of the door unidentifiable. Dean stepped onto the door, feeling it crumble under his boots, and got his first look of the interior.

The first floor was half living room, half kitchen. There were chair remains lying on their sides, a stone fireplace directly in front of them. The kitchen counters were long since gone. A nest of some sort of animal was crammed into the back of one, whose door was lying open. The icebox was lying on its side, having been knocked over some time in the four decades. The table was charred, but still standing surrounded by pieces of kitchen chairs. There was a door off the kitchen, quite possibly a bathroom, and a set of stone stairs next to it.

Sam wasn't on the first floor, making Dean wonder if he took the chance and walked up the steps. He started toward the stairs, contemplating how safe the upstairs really was, but froze when he heard a grinding noise. He spun around, watching as the icebox pulled itself to a standing position and dragged itself across the floor. Before he could make it back to the doorway the icebox positioned itself directly in front of it, blocking his way.

"Damn it," he said racing toward the icebox. He set his shotgun on a nearby counter, trying to push the icebox of the way. The thing was heavy, even when he put his weight into it. He had a feeling Jeremy was behind it, keeping him locked inside.

A gun cocked behind him, making him freeze. He turned slowly, his sawed-off pointed directly at his face. _Crap_, he thought as the trigger was pulled by a phantom finger.

_**SUPERNATURAL**_

**Earlier…**

Sam heard his brother's footsteps start to fade the farther they walked away from one another. Splitting up never boded well for those two, but apart they could find Jeremy's bones faster.

He let his EMF meter, Dean having made him one after they stopped a demon from crashing an airplane, scan the area. The red lights barely lit up, one or two if he was lucky. It was like Jeremy was lying in wait, setting a trap they were sure to walk into.

The back of the house was about as bad as the front, a charred reminder of what were once probably some happy memories. Sam hated fire. No matter how useful it was it always seemed to destroy something good along the way. Always.

He kept walking, his mind too preoccupied to really note that his EMF meter was whining. When he realized what the thing was doing, he was too late to do anything to defend himself. He was pushed from behind, slamming into the ground. His shotgun slammed into his abdomen, the air leaving his lungs in one big whoosh.

He rolled off his 12-gauge, looking into the eyes of a totally different ghost. It wasn't Jeremy, far from it, but an older guy. He had to be in his late forties, a bullet hole splattered across the side of his head. His metallic, phantom blood dripped down the side of his face, falling onto his-no doubt-expensive, professionally tailored dress shirt. Sam had no idea who this guy was and reached for his shotgun, only to have it fly from his grasp five feet away.

He made to crawl and get it, but a hand grabbed his ankle and yanked him back. The fingers of the ghost's hand brushed his skin, making it go cold. He tried kicking out with his other leg, hoping to make some kind of contact, but his foot went right through the new spirit making that one go numb. The spirit smiled, showing a mouth full of white teeth, a golden tooth in the back catching Sam's attention.

The spirit's grip tightened on the younger Winchester's ankle, as he turned in a half circle. With strength only a supernatural being could master, Sam was picked up off the ground. The spirit let his ankle go, allowing him to fly into a tree.

The air was knocked out of him again as he landed on his right side, something hard grinding into his ribs. He managed to dig his brother's small flashlight from his pocket, having put it there when Dean had handed him the bigger one. He turned it on, flicking it back and forth looking for the new spirit.

It was nowhere to be found, so he turned the light off, put it back in his pocket, and painfully pushed himself into a sitting position. He pulled himself to his feet, racing toward his shotgun. Before he could reach it, he was tackled to the ground. His chest hit first, the rest of his body following in a painful slid lifting his shirt a few inches. Sticks sliced into his exposed skin, one particularly pointy one gouging his side.

"There's no way you're stopping me, boy," the spirit said grabbing Sam by the hair and yanking him into a kneeling position. The spirit lashed out, his foot flying at Sam's face. The younger Winchester fought against the spirit's hold, feeling hair rip from his scalp as he pulled himself free. He rolled to the side, barely avoiding a broken nose, and scrambled to his feet. He tried to reach his gun for the third time, tripping over a jutted out root before he could get more than a few inches. He fell, slamming into the ground, on his back, with a breathing taking **thud**.

He turned to see the ghost stalking toward him. He tried to get up, pain from his ankle sending him back to the ground. He crab crawled away from the spirit, seconds away from calling his brother, when his hand brushed against something familiar.

He took his shotgun into his hands, pointed it at the spirit, and fired. It dissipated with an anguished cry. Breathing heavily, letting his gun drop to his side, Sam laid back. He had a feeling he would have laid there for at least a few more seconds if the sound of another gunshot hadn't sounded from inside the cabin.

"Dean," he exclaimed pushing himself to his feet. He ignored the pain from his twisted ankle, not really sure when exactly he hurt it, scooped his shotgun off the ground, and limped toward the house…


	6. Chapter 6

**Sorry this took so long to update. And I really don't have an excuse, so I'll just say I will try to update a lot sooner next time.**

**Anyway, thanks for the support, it was much appreciated, and I hope to catch you in the next chapter.**

**Let me know what you think and I own nothing.**

**Bye…**

He felt something jabbing him when he came to. It hadn't broken the skin, he would have known, but it was digging into his hip. He had to move, before he ended up with a gouge where one didn't need to be. But when he attempted to move, a searing pain exploded through his leg making his body seize up and a scream rip from his lungs.

"Dean," someone called from above him. "Hold on, I'm coming." Heavy footfalls moved across the floor, a door opened. It was too quiet, he felt himself sinking into oblivion again, until something shined into his face.

"Dean?" someone slapped him, he groaned in pain and irritation. "Come on, open your eyes." it was an order, masked by a friendly tone, he had to follow it. Slowly, he opened his eyes, slamming them shut when a bright light nearly blinded him. "Shit, sorry." The light clicked off, the room dark once more. He opened his eyes again, multiply colored balls floating past his vision for a few seconds before a Sasquatch sized silhouette burst into focus.

"Hey, you okay?" Sam voice came from the figure, a flashlight flicking on and illuminating Sam's worried face.

"What…what the hell happened?" Dean whispered into the dirt.

"You fell through the floor," Sam replied flicking his flashlight across the dirt filled room. "Looks like you landed in the cellar or something. Are you okay?"

"I think…" Dean tried to move onto his back, the same pain he felt earlier hitting him again. He managed to bite his lip to keep from crying out, but he knew something wasn't quite right with his leg.

"What? Dean, what? You went six shades paler than normal." Sam was really worried now, past worried, much closer to freaking out.

"It's…"

"Don't tell me 'it's nothing.' What's…" the flashlight moved away from Dean's face, scanning down his body, obviously helping Sam search out injuries. Sure enough, after not even six seconds of searching, the flashlight found what it intended. "Crap," Sam whispered.

"What?"

"There's a piece of metal in your leg," Sam said as his face appeared in Dean's sight again, flashlight slightly shaking in his hand. "I…I don't know how…"

"Can you…? Can you pull it out?" Dean really didn't want to know the answer, but he could barely move with the metal in his leg. It was either remove it or be stuck in this frigging cellar thingy for the remainder of the night.

"R…remove it…? That could…that could damage…"

"Look," Dean started between clenched teeth, catching hold of his brother's jacket and pulling him to his eyelevel, "there is no damn way I'm staying down here. I can barely move with this frigging thing in my leg. Pull it out…or I will."

Uncertainty crossing his face, Sam still gently turned Dean onto his back and grabbed hold of the metal, yanking with all his might. Blinding hot pain shot through Dean's leg, causing him to scream. He could hear his brother apologizing over and over under his breath, the pain getting worse and worse until it finally cut off. There was the soft **thud** of something hitting dirt and a soft voice saying, "Dean?"

Dean opened eyes he didn't remember closing, his brother's blurry face swimming in his sight. He waited three heartbeats until everything came back into focus, noticing how close his brother was from really losing it.

"Holy crap," he breathed, trying to get back under control himself.

"I…I'm sorry," Sam muttered pulling his jacket off. He unbuttoned his outer shirt, his hands slipping on the buttons several times as they shook. When he managed to remove it, he tied it to Dean's leg as a makeshift tourniquet.

"It's okay," Dean wheezed closing his eyes. "I'm fine."

"Liar," Sam whispered setting his flashlight aside to help Dean sit up. Dean leaned against his brother's chest for a moment, still trying to get his breathing under control. The momentarily forgotten flashlight shined on a dirt wall and a set of rickety stairs leading to a set of cellar doors. It explained how Sam got down there, but it didn't quite explain how he had gotten down into the cellar. Only what Sam told him. About how he fell through the floor and then he remembered.

His shot gun had been pointed at him, he had dove to the side to avoid a rocksalt filled head, and the already aged floor gave way under his weight. The landed must have knocked him out, while his leg was impaled by a piece of pipe or something sharp and metal.

"We need to take this spirit out soon," Dean commented pushing himself away from Sam.

"Gonna be kind of hard, seeing as there's two spirits," Sam mumbled collecting his flashlight off the floor.

"Two? No, Jefferson said there was one. Bernie said there was one… Two?"

"The second one attacked me earlier." Now that Dean was paying attention, a metal pipe no longer making itself at home in his leg, he noticed how disheveled his brother looked. There were twigs and leaves in Sam's hair, a small cut across his face, and some blood smeared across his tee-shirt. Looking up, Dean noticed the fall from the first floor to the basement was a good four, four and a half feet. Sam could have easily jumped down here, yet he chose to take the cellar door. Suggesting a sprained ankle.

"Who do you think…?" Dean trailed off when he realized his brother wasn't listening to him. He followed his brother's gaze, eyes resting on a pile of bones revealed by the flashlight in his brother's hand.

"Who's…?"

"I don't know," Sam whispered.

"You think they're Jeremy's?"

"I don't know."

"Wanna burn them and find out?" Dean asked trying and failing to push himself to his feet. He could barely get up onto his knees without his leg wound screaming at him in pain.

"Let's get out of here, first," Sam suggested painfully pushing himself to his feet and pulling his jacket back on. Despite the way he was holding his torso, and the fact that he was favoring his left ankle, he still leaned down and got a shoulder under Dean's arm.

"On three," he said quietly receiving a nod from Dean. "One, two…" before he said three, he hauled his older brother to his feet. He always did that, claimed to act on three and only counted to two, and Dean didn't know why. It was annoying and it didn't give him time to brace himself. So when pain shot through his leg, Dean let out a barely audible groan.

"Okay, let's go," Sam said steering his brother toward the cellar steps. They slowly walked toward them, carefully climbing them to get outside. Once outdoors, the rain coming quicker than earlier, Sam carefully lowered Dean onto the back porch steps, or what was left of them.

"I'll get our stuff, stay here." Sam pointed to his shotgun, sitting not-so-innocently against the house, just in Dean's reach, and said, "Shotgun's right there."

"I'm not blind," Dean snapped resting his elbows on his knees, wishing the pain in his leg would go away.

"I'll be back." And Sam was gone, his footsteps muffled by leaves and rain. The occasional crack of a stick hitting Dean's ears. The rain continued to beat down on his head, driving Dean crazy. He didn't want it to rain, but it was one of those days. Plus, he'd already established that Mother Nature hated him. And it was a hatred he couldn't justify. He never did anything to Mother Nature, yet she still hated him. Maybe she was punishing him for all the girls he hooked up with then left. She was defending her own kind, which had to be justification enough.

_God I'm a freak_, he thought wearily pulling his left leg onto the step below him and resting his head on it. _ Yep, definitely a freak._

_**Supernatural**_

When Sam returned a few minutes later, bag full of weapons draped across his shoulder, he found his brother with his head resting on his leg looking off into the distance. He crept up to Dean, gently resting a hand on his shoulder when in reach.

"What?" Dean said lifting his head.

"Just seeing if you were awake," Sam replied dropping his bag onto the deck. He started rummaging into it, finding a canister of salt, a squeeze bottle of lighter fluid, and a lighter at the bottom. He pocketed all three, glanced at Dean, and said, "Sit tight. I'll only be a few minutes." He waited for a nod of affirmation from his brother before heading toward the cellar steps.

Once back in the basement, he began collecting bones until he had an entire skeleton. Or what he hoped was the entire skeleton. He didn't need to miss one and have an even more pissed off spirit after him. He started dousing the bones in salt and lighter fluid, making sure everything was covered, and then flicked the lighter to life. He dropped it onto the bones, briefly watching them go up in flames before he took off up the steps. Halfway there he heard a gunshot, causing him to speed up despite his injured ankle. He turned the corner, watching as his brother scrambled backwards up the steps, digging into his pockets for another round of rocksalt and finding nothing, Jeremy stalking toward him with his bat swinging gently at his side.

"Hey," Sam called flicking the remainder of his salt at the ghost. Jeremy managed to glare at Sam before he dissipated. The younger Winchester rushed toward his brother, who had gone another couple shades whiter from jostling his injured leg.

"I guess it wasn't Jeremy," Dean commented breathing heavily.

"Yeah, I guess not," Sam replied crouching down to check on Dean's leg. It was an angry red and oozing blood. It didn't go all the way through his brother's leg, but it was pretty damn close. He couldn't tell if it hit anything vital, but knew if it hit an artery Dean wouldn't be even remotely alive, so that was a plus.

"Who was it, then? Was it the other ghost?" Dean breathing was still unusually fast, but was calming down some.

"I don't…" Sam trailed off when the temperature dropped, not exactly helping with the rain continuing to fall faster and faster, and another spirit appeared a good five or six yards from the two brothers.

"I'm guessing that's your spirit," Dean mumbled.

"Yep."

"So who did we burn?"

"Let's move," Sam suggested grabbing his brother's arm and pulling him up. He grabbed the empty 12-gauge from the deck, dragging his brother backwards to get some distance from the spirit. He slid a shell into the gun's chamber, cocking it back and aiming it, only to find no one.

"Where'd he go?" Dean asked scanning the area.

"I don't…" Sam never got to answer, something shoving him from behind. He stumbled, Dean slipping out of his grip and slamming into the ground. Sam turned, shotgun ready, and fired at Jeremy before he could hit Dean.

"Okay, this is getting tiring," Sam commented loading the shotgun again, placing seven shells into the chamber. He wasn't sure how many he had left; too busy looking for Jeremy and the other guy to properly check. Absently, he grabbed Dean's arm and pulled him to his feet, the older leaning on his brother more than earlier.

"Can we move," Dean asked already trying to pull Sam back with him. Moving caused a small gasp of pain to escape the older Winchester's lips getting Sam's attention.

"Hold still," Sam snapped still looking for the spirits, unconsciously backing himself into the house's siding for cover. He could almost smell smoke from the burning cellar, the smell of the rain mostly masking it, and wasn't sure if the fire would spread to the floor above or not. It depended on how high the flames got, but there was a possibility the rain would put out the fire before hand. Sam could only hope.

Dean dug in his pocket, pulling his EMF meter out. Surprisingly, the thing survived the fall. He turned it on, sweeping it back and forth trying to pick up anything remotely electromagnetic.

"I'm not…" he trailed off when the thing lit up and whined.

"Where are they?" Sam asked scanning the island, barely breathing as he listened. That's when the window exploded above them…


	7. Chapter 7

**I am so sorry this is late. If you read anything else from me recently-old stories notwithstanding-you will know that I have been having some computer trouble. So, I am slowly working on these stories on my uncle's spare. Fingers crossed I'll have these finished before I'm thirty.**

**Anyway, thanks for the reviews and alerts last chapter, I'm glad some of you are sticking to this, and catch ya in the next chapter.**

**I own nothing!**

**Bye…**

_**Supernatural**_

He was pulled to the ground, glass blending with the rain already falling onto his head. He heard a sickening **thud**, felt a wave of pain shoot through his body as he landed on his injured leg, and felt a gust of wind blow past him. All of which took place in a matter of thirty, confusing seconds.

When Dean was able to push his pain and confusion aside, calming down enough to take in his surroundings, he pushed himself up. He let his eyes flick across the forest floor, noticing glass decorating the dirt, and spotted the broken window above him. Flames could be seen in the window, gently caressing the already burnt wall. Apparently Sam did a little too good of a job at taking care of the useless bones. Just thinking of Sam… _Where is he?_

Dean turned his head to the side, his widening at the sight. Blood fell from a nasty gash across the side his brother's head, mixing with the dirt and rain on the ground. It explained the **thud** Dean had heard earlier. His brother had cracked his head on the deck, hard enough to knock him out.

He scrambled to his knees, ignoring the second spike of pain in several seconds, worry gnawing at his stomach. He froze for a second, trying to remember the last time Sam had had a concussion, been so still, looked so small. It had been a long time, too long.

Dean snapped back to himself a few seconds later, lightly tapping his brother's face, hoping for a response. He had to wake him up, had to keep him awake, there were no other options.

"Come on, Sammy," Dean said quietly, tapping him harder. When that plan failed, he blindly groped for their bag, his hand hitting several items before he found the first aid kit. He dropped the cloth bag onto the muddy floor, unzipping it. He dug around for a second, finding what he was looking for after a few seconds.

It wasn't their favorite thing to use, but it usually worked. Dean unscrewed the cap of the smelling salt John had stuck in the bag several years before, and ran the tube underneath his brother's nose. Sam coughed, sputtered, groaned, and then opened his eyes.

"That's it. Come on, Sammy," Dean said replacing the cap and putting the tube back in the bag. He waited for his brother to get his bearings, confused hazel-green eyes scanning the area, before he said, "You okay?"

"What happened?" Sam asked trying to sit up, but gave it up as a bad job when pain hit and he grimaced. He sank back once more, bringing his hands up to knead his forehead.

"You…" Dean trailed off, the temperature dropping several degrees. He snatched Sam's fallen shotgun off the floor, turned in a half circle, and fired before Jeremy could hit him with his bat. Behind him he felt flames cracking, realizing that if he or Sam didn't move soon they'd have something else to worry about besides Jeremy and his 'friend.'

"We've gotta move," Dean said painfully pushing himself to his feet. He wobbled for a second, the pain in his leg causing him to nearly bite a hole in his lip, but managed to keep his balance. "You did too good of a job of burning those bones."

He snatched their bag off the ground, replacing the first-aid kit amongst the supplies, and tossed it as far from the burning house as he could. He then set the 12-gauge on the top step, crouching down to get a shoulder under his brother's arm. Ignoring the ever present pain in his leg, he pushed his brother into a standing position.

When he straightened, he almost fell when 180-plus pounds leaned into him. Dean grabbed the crumbling porch railing, keeping himself up for the time being. He pulled Sam's arm over his shoulder, collected the 12-gauge, and started limping away from the burning house. Halfway to their stuff, the temperature dropped again, the other spirit appearing directly in front of him. He stopped, fumbling to raise the shotgun to hit the guy, but was pushed to the side from behind, landing painfully on the ground. His vision was obscured for a second by his brother's long limbs, but he managed to push Sam to the side to watch as the two ghosts caught sight of each other.

"You," Jeremy growled raising his bat.

"Hit me, see what happens," the second spirit said spreading his arms. Jeremy let out a war cry, diving at the second spirit. They both fell to the ground, screams of anguish echoing across the sky, as a blinding, white light made Dean cover his face. He blindly reached out for Sam, pulling him backwards away from the light. He was inches away when everything went quiet, still, and dark.

He lowered his arm, looking around for either spirit. Whatever had happened, they both seemed to be gone. He heard Sam groan next to him, glancing down to see a confused look locked on him. He shrugged and said, "I don't know."

"I don't feel so good," was Sam's response. Dean understood immediately, helping his brother turn to his side. He looked away as everything Sam ate the past twenty-four hours made a second, unwanted appearance. Dry heaves followed, along with a sob of pain, and then Sam was left exhausted and shaking, leaning into Dean.

"Hey, you're okay. You're okay," Dean whispered running his fingers through his brother's hair, avoiding the bloody, nasty gash as best he could.

He had no idea how long they sat there, but knew it couldn't have been more than ten minutes. However, in the time, the rain had managed to settle down. He had to get up, but didn't want to jostle his brother or his own injured leg. It was too bad things didn't always go the way people wanted.

He sighed, letting his brother go and pushing himself up. He grabbed Sam by the arm, and hauled him up, too. He grabbed the 12-gauge from the ground and started limping toward their stuff, half dragging and half carrying his brother with him. He grabbed the weapon's bag, replacing the shot gun amongst the stuff. He tried to remember where they left the other two bags, the location coming to him a few seconds later.

"You're lucky you talked me into packing that tent," Dean grumbled heading toward a clump of bushes, ignoring the burning house behind him. He didn't get an answer, smartass or otherwise, and glanced over at Sam. His eyes were drooping closed, making Dean gently shake him and wake him.

"What?" Sam whined glazed hazel-green eyes glaring at Dean.

"You've gotta stay awake. I can't have you falling into a coma. How's about I ask you a couple questions, that'll keep you awake and reassure me you aren't suffering amnesia."

"Please don't," Sam begged pathetically.

"Watch me," Dean replied and started with the basics. "Name?"

"Sam Winchester."

"Okay. Age?"

"Twenty-two."

"Birthday?"

"May second."

"My name?"

"Dean Winchester."

"Age?"

"Twenty-six."

"Birthday?"

"January twenty-forth." The easier questions done, Dean decided to ask a couple harder ones. It would keep Sam awake for a few moments, hopefully. He was fading faster than a flickering candle.

"The first thing you've ever hunted?"

"A spirit," came the weak reply. Sam was tired, Dean knew, but he couldn't let him go to sleep. Not yet.

"What was her name?"

"Trick…trick question," Sam slurred causing Dean start to worry. He wasn't slurring earlier and there was nothing he could do. Bernie wasn't going to be there until morning, and that was hours from then.

"What do you mean?" Dean questioned hoping he sounded less panicked then he felt.

"It wasn't a female," Sam murmured resting his head on Dean's shoulder, his breath tickling his brother's neck. "His name was… was Peter Oliver. He… he killed his family, then…then himself. Can we stop…stop with the questions, now?"

"Okay, we'll stop for now."

Their stuff was right where they left it, a little damp, but otherwise in one piece. Dean settled Sam against a tree, heading toward their bags. He yanked open his duffle's zipper, digging around until he found the tent supplies. It was now worth it, leaving nearly all his belongings behind to bring this. He wouldn't admit it allowed, but he had thought it was a bad idea when Sam suggested it.

"Okay, let's see if I can remember how to do this." Sam had been better at pitching the tents, while Dean could start a fire MacGyver style if he had to. Not that Dean couldn't pitch a tent if he wanted to, he just preferred when Sam did it. It gave him time to scope the area, make sure they were safe, and pop open a soda or beer once finished. Now he didn't have much choice, so he got to work.

Ten minutes later a small tent stood in front of him, one of the pegs missing. He had improvised with a thick, sharp, broken branch sitting under a tree. It looked kinda ghetto, but it would have to do for now.

"Sammy, I'm moving you," he said tapping his brother's face to bring him around. Sam tried to wave his hand away, but Dean ignored him and dragged him toward the tent. It was cramped, the last time they stayed in it was when they were teenagers, but it was all they had until sun-up.

"I have a feeling someone's getting a knee in an uncomfortable place sometime soon," Dean commented stretching his injured leg out as far as he could, pulling the makeshift tourniquet loose to check on it. It was slowly oozing new blood, old blood smeared across his jeans and skin. It wasn't anywhere close to a pleasant injury; he'd probably needed a hospital. The pain was coming back full force as his adrenaline started to wane, making him dig in the weapons bag for the first-aid kit. He pulled out some Tylenol and a water bottle, shaking three out for himself. He downed the pills with a swig of water, shaking out two more for Sam. He nudged his brother awake, offering him the pills and water. Sam took the Tylenol without hesitation, draining a little over half the bottle along with them.

"Get some rest. I'll wake you in a couple hours," Dean said putting the pills back in the bag. Sam was already half asleep, his head using Dean's shoulder as a pillow. The older brother glanced over, noticing blood slowly leaking across his jacket. He gently brushed Sam's shaggy hair away from the cut, studying it for a few seconds. It wasn't deep, deep-probably wouldn't need any stitches-but even the smallest head injury had to be watched. He'd just have to keep an eye on Sam.

While his brother slept, Dean concentrated on his leg. He dug in the kit, taking out some gauze and medical tape. He wrapped the wound, making sure the bandage was tight enough to keep much needed pressure on it, and taped it. He hesitated with the makeshift tourniquet, not sure if he should put it back on or not, but decided to replace the shirt just in case. Once satisfied he let his eyes close and his mind wander.

He wasn't sure what had happened to Jeremy and his 'friend.' The only logical assumption he could make was that both cancelled each other out. Why it hadn't happened until now was way above Dean's comprehension. Sam, on the other hand, would probably have several theories on top of several theories. _He's such a nerd_.

It was against his better judgment, he'd much rather be conscious incase Sam needed him, but somewhere between his speculation and his thought about Sam's nerdy-ness, Dean fell asleep leaving the tent in silence except for the quiet pitter-patter of sprinkling ran on the roof…

_**Supernatural**_

**Even though the ghosts are gone (and I'll explain how in a later chapter) this story is far from over. Remember, there's still a good chunk of time before Bernie will return, a lot can happen between Dean and Sam. They are both injured (yes my twisted mind just wouldn't let one off lightly). Let's see what else I can do…**

**Bye…**


	8. Chapter 8

**I apologize for the lateness of this. My mind was on other projects, but now I am back.**

**I appreciate the reviews and alerts last chapter, here's hoping you enjoy this one, and let me know what you think.**

**I own nothing**

**Bye…**

_**Supernatural**_

_ He was in a room full of mirrors. How he had gotten to this room was beyond him, but there he was. He was looking back at himself, every doppelganger wearing the same exact look of confusion on their faces. Moving around the room, he passed several more versions of himself, until eventually the mirrors thinned out to one lone mirror standing in the middle of the room._

_ This mirrors reflection was different, however. It was not wearing a look of perplexity, but a look of total contempt. He wasn't sure what the meaning of the look was until the reflection spoke to him. "Why did you let it happen? If you had loved her you wouldn't have let it happen. You never loved her, didn't you? Didn't you?" he backed away from the mirror, his heels hitting the solid wall cropping up behind him. "You knew it would happen and it's all your fault she died. YOU KNEW IT WOULD HAPPEN!" the mirror shattered, glass flying at him at an alarming rate…_

Sam jolted awake, the change in position arousing the pain in his head. He gasped, grabbing the sides of his head with both hands. A hiss of pain escaped his lips as he prodded the shallow gash hidden in his hair. Sam pulled his hand away, finding blood coating his fingertips. He tried to wrack his brain, figure out when he had hit his head, but it hurt too much to think. Instead, he let his eyes roam around, trying to take in anything familiar.

If he wasn't mistaken, there was a sixty-six percent chance he could be, he was sitting in a tiny tent. Above him he could hear a light **pitter-patter**, the sound like tiny pins ramming into his eyes and sending another stab of pain through his head. Ignoring that, he continued his search realizing his feet were almost buried by a couple bags. He pulled his feet toward him, listening to the packs colliding with the ground.

He became aware that a great, warm weight was pressing against him making his arm go numb. Sam glanced over, his heart stuttered in his chest when he realized it was a person. He couldn't go far, an inch or two, but still tried to move away from the mystery person. As he moved, his arm brushed against something in his coat pocket, getting his attention. The object turned out to be a flashlight, once he clicked on. The sudden burst of light sent a flash of pain into his eyes, his head responding with its own jolt.

Sam's eyes slammed shut, taking great gusts of air through his nose in hopes of staunching the pain. Once it was under control, and he braced himself for the light, he allowed himself to open his eyes again.

The now illuminated tent blurred slightly before snapping back into focus. He let the light dance around, taking in everything and anything at once, only to let it stop on the person. To Sam's relief it turned out to be his brother.

His relief, however, was short lived when several things occurred to him at once. One: Dean was never that still. When he was twelve, he had broken his foot and was instructed to stay off of it for six weeks. That did not stop him from finding excuses to get up off the couch every ten seconds. Dean was a ball of energy that was constantly doing something, and sometimes that became annoying.

Two: Sam was pretty damn sure his irrational freak out would have awoken his brother. Dean was a light sleeper. The smallest sound would wake him, the slightest touch. It was all because their dad used to wake the boys up at all hours of the night, have them packed, and back on the road before either one was totally awake.

Three: Dean's breathing seemed shallower than normal. His chest was a constant stream of in and out without a deep breath between puffs. But the worst thing, the most worrying, the one thing to make Sam panic and have his breath catch in his throat, was the fact that Dean was covered in blood. The majority, however, was coming from his wrapped up leg.

"Dean," Sam whispered dropping his flashlight and lightly tapping his brother cool and clammy face. "C'mon, wake up." to his disappointment, Dean stayed unconscious. Sam took in a deep breath, attempting to calm himself down before he could totally freak out. The rational thing to do was to get Dean some help. Hopefully there was a road close by, so he could flag down a car.

"I'll be back," Sam promised his pale faced, unmoving brother. He peeled his jacket off, draping it across Dean's shoulders. "Just hold on," he muttered gripping Dean's left shoulder once before crawling over him to the tent's entrance, careful not to hit his brother's wound.

As he groped around for the zipper, he realized his flashlight was still shining on the back of the tent. He scooped it up, using the lights aid to help him. Once open, he pulled himself from the tent and quickly closed it, hoping his brother would be safe from the elements for the time being.

Sam used the aid of an old stump to pull himself up, keeping a firm hold of it when the world began to spin at a tilt-a-whirl type level. He willed himself not to throw up all over the ground, taking in gulps of air, and was finally ready to let go. With one last look behind him, the tent still standing where it was pitched, Sam started walking north. Silently hoping he was going in the right direction.

_**Supernatural**_

It took a second for his sluggish brain to pull him from sleep. His eyes took a second, but they soon followed his brain into the land of the conscious. At first, the fog around his mind fighting off rational thought, he couldn't remember how he had gotten where ever he was or why he felt so weak. Then he spotted the blood and it all flooded back to him, in painful detail.

Dean sat up straighter, cursing himself for falling asleep. Sam needed him, he wasn't exactly one-hundred percent, and… The tent seemed roomier all of a sudden, almost like a sasquatchion sized nerd had wandered off. Dean glanced over, hoping that wasn't the case, only to panic tenfold when he found his brother gone.

"Sam," he tried to call, managing a hoarse whisper. He cleared his dry throat and tried again, this time managing a much louder, "Sam?" No answer, no sign of him, Dean was totally going to kill his brother-once he was sure the concussed, overgrown man-boy was okay.

He scrambled toward the entrance, the air almost knocked out of him when the sudden movement pushed on his leg wound. He lowered himself to the floor, vision graying around the edges, and took several deep breaths. Once he was able to shove the pain to the back of his head did he peel his eyes open.

Dean braced himself for his second attempt at moving managing to make it out of the tent with minimal if any cries of pains. Or that's what he'd admit to later, if anyone asked. Once outside the tent-a gentle breeze and sprinkling rain making him shiver-he used an old stump to pull himself to his feet. Vertical, he quickly realized, was no better than horizontal as he lowered himself onto the stump for a second.

The trees were wavering back and forth, reminding him of a bad trip he had gone through when he was sixteen. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing everything to settle down, and slowly opened them again. The trees stayed perfectly still afterward, giving him the incentive to stand up and continue on his way.

He was hardly walking, or more like stumbling, for six seconds when he realized he had no way of tracking Sam. Dean supposed he could follow his brother's footprints, his hands automatically searching his pockets for any type of light. He found a tiny flashlight in his inside coat pocket, the light twisting on with ease. It didn't take long for him to find the weaving set of shoeprints and start to follow them.

Every other step caused him to clench his teeth, the pain almost too much for him to bear. Twice his vision grayed his head swimming with the need to pass out. Dean wouldn't allow that, he couldn't find Sam if he was unconscious. As long as his brother was out there, lost, hurt, and alone, Dean was not about to give up on him. He would just have to suck up the pain and continue on.

_**Supernatural**_

Sam had to rest a minute, his head was killing him. As he sat down on a giant boulder, he lifted his wrist to check his watch. He had been walking for twenty minutes and had not run into a road or a ranger station, nothing. It made him wonder how far into the woods him and Dean were. However, every time he tried to think about it his head would give a throb of pain and he had to concentrate on not throwing up.

After a forty second break, he pushed himself to his feet. He willed the trees to stop swaying, watching as they came to a semi-stationary position. Taking what he could get, he pushed on.

To keep his mind off the pain, and to keep his feet moving, he started doing some mind exercises. They also helped jog his mind when he needed to remember something, and anything useful would be appreciated at that point. He started out with something easy, saying the alphabet backwards and forwards. Once through, he did it in Spanish, then French (he only knew the French way because of Jessica). Running out of alphabets, he started alphabetizing the states, first forwards then backwards. The presidents came next, followed by all the Greek gods he knew.

The mind exercises all started with Dean back when Sam was four or five. He used to ask questions upon questions, almost to no end, driving his older brother insane. To get him to stop, Dean made up the game. At first it was easy stuff, just the alphabet or numbers, but eventually it became harder until Sam was saying Latin text forwards and backwards. It was no wonder Sam did so much better in school than Dean.

He was halfway through Egyptian gods when he heard heavy footfalls coming towards him. He let his mind cut off, drowsiness and pain flooding back into him. He pushed it all to the back of his mind, clicking his flashlight off. Whatever was following him-quite possibly the thing that hurt Dean-he didn't want it to find him. Sam ducked behind a close-by tree, realizing too late that if the thing could see in the dark his footprints would give him away. Glancing up, an idea started to form.

_**Supernatural**_

**Earlier…**

Dean nearly tripped over his feet for the third time. He blindly reached out, taking hold of a willow tree. He leaned his head against the bark, closing his eyes briefly, letting his heavy breathing calm down as much as it could.

He allowed himself a moments rest before he continued on. His wound had begun bleeding again, warm, red liquid running down his leg. It wasn't good for him, he knew, but there wasn't much he could do about it.

He stumbled, his vision blurring, but he managed to keep his balance. For the second time, in only two minutes, he had to stop. He let his eyes close, hoping the forest would stop swaying back and forth. He realized he would have to open his eyes soon, without them he couldn't track Sam. So, wearily he let them slid open, the forest stationary once more. Thankful for small favors he trekked on.

His flashlight, going dim ten minutes into his search, had started to blink on and off. At first he believed it was a ghost, but a quick assessment told him the ghosts were already taken care of. He became aware that it was probably the batteries going to hell. And just as the thought left his head, the flashlight died completely.

"Crap," he whispered pounding the thing against his palm, hoping it would magically spark to life. When he failed to achieve that, not even sure the last time he changed the flashlight's batteries, did he realize that without light he was not going to be able to track Sam. "Okay, Sam, I realize now why you suggested we carry batteries with us at all times," he muttered remembering the slightly perverted joke he made after Sam mentioned batteries just three days ago.

Squinting, hoping to see something, wishing he could develop night vision, he continued on for another minute or two. He realized it was futile about seven seconds before he heard the rustle.

Dean froze in his tracks, trying not to breathe or think, listening for the sound again. After a second or two he concluded it was probably a squirrel and took two more steps. His leg picked the most inane time to give out, his hand automatically reaching out for the closest tree. He had barely touched the rough bark when he heard the second rustle followed by the unmistakable sound of feet hitting earth.

The ten seconds it would have taken a normal person to turn around, were not enough for Dean before something connected with the back of his head. He never felt himself hit the ground…


	9. Chapter 9

**I've got nothing…**

**They aren't mine…**

**Bye…**

_**Supernatural**_

When Sam was ten Dean was instructed by their father to start teaching him to fight. This started the most grueling training sessions ever. It left him bruised, aching, tired, and grumpy. Plus, some of the teachers started questioning him about his home life. But what did he say to them, his older brother was knocking him around to prepare him for hunting evil monsters that would make a nightmare seem like a trip to Disney. He couldn't, so he mostly just said he and his brother sparred sometimes. Some believed him, others were skeptical, and one got a hold of a social worker. Luckily they left before the lady could show up, but it still was a very close call.

It wasn't until he was thirteen did he finally succeed in taking his older brother down. It was winter break, three days before Christmas, and Dean was crawling the walls after being cooped up in another forgettable motel room for a week. So, he suggested they spar for a while. Sam, who had been busy with research on the creature of the week, didn't want to, but when Dean got something in his head he didn't let it go until he got his way. So, Sam eventually agreed, and they had started to train.

It had been a fluke, really, him getting the best of Dean. Dean had started out with short jabs, trying to get around Sam's block. After a couple hits, nothing that would leave a bruise, both brothers changed roles, Dean blocked while Sam threw punches at him.

Like always Dean started in on him. '_You're such a girl, you'll never hit me.' 'Come on Samantha, I know six year olds who can hit harder than that.'_ It was irritating, sure, but Sam had grown used to it and didn't let it bother him. From jabs they moved on to uppercuts and dodging. Sam managed to avoid every hit, a first for him. Dean gave him a grin of approval, never one to criticize how accomplishments could have been better like John, and told him to switch roles.

Sam had never been very good at uppercuts. Dean usually dodged every one of his punches, most of the time knocking Sam down. So, it didn't surprise him when his first three punches were blocked.

"_We can't all be good fighters, Sammy,"_ Dean had said with a smirk. "_Maybe you should stick to what you're good at, bookworm."_ The phone rang then, getting Dean's attention, just as Sam threw an uppercut. No time to defend himself, the older Winchester took the hit to the nose, falling to the ground.

Sam learned three things that day. One: Dean did not like being beaten at his own game, no matter the opponent. Two: noses bleed a lot when they are broken. And three: popping bones back into place wasn't as cool as he thought it would be.

Nine years later, as he dropped the hefty branch he had been holding, trying to ignore the fact that his ankle was close to collapsing under him, he realized that accidentally hitting your brother with an uppercut and knocking him out because you thought he was an enemy were not the same thing.

Of course, at first Sam was silently congratulating himself on a job well done. Until curiosity got the better of him and his flashlight's light fell on his downed brother. Then he came to the conclusion that a celebration of fantastic planning was completely inappropriate.

Words failed Sam at his discovery... Okay, words didn't exactly fail him, but he couldn't come up with anything good enough to convey the fact that he had just knocked out his brother. Except maybe a few well chosen swear words and a major apology when Dean woke up.

Sam slowly lowered himself to the ground, shining his flashlight on the back of his brother's head where a large goose egg was starting to develop. Besides the now probable concussion, Dean's leg had also started to bleed again. Fresh blood was coating his already stained jeans. Yeah, Sam wasn't about to win any awards for best brother anytime soon.

Gently, he turned his brother onto back, letting the older Winchester's head rest on his knee. "C'mon Dean, wake up," Sam muttered tapping his brother's face. It didn't work before, and there was a chance it wasn't going to work now. Luck, however, must have been on his side for a change because a few more taps had Dean's eyelids fluttering.

"That's it," Sam coaxed his brother, watching as confused green eyes opened. It took Dean a moment, his brain no doubt trying to piece together what had happened, but he managed to croak out, "Sam?"

"Yeah, and I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"Never mind," Sam said quickly averting his eyes from his brother's now scrutinizing gaze. "Why were you following me?"

"Because you ran off, numbnuts," Dean replied sitting up too quickly. His face turned a slight green color as he lowered himself back down to Sam's knee. "Why did you take off?"

"You were bleeding, I was trying to get help," Sam replied exasperated.

"Good luck with that," Dean said quietly, covering his face with his hands to shield his eyes against Sam's flashlight. "We're on an island."

A few things clicked into place through Sam's muddled brain. A boat, some man named Bernie, a couple ghosts: nothing remotely helpful, but he was sure the memories meant something more.

"Why are we on an island?"

"Crap," Dean whispered sitting up again, more slowly this time. Once upright he looked at Sam and asked, "What is the last thing you remember?"

Sam thought a minute, pushing past the roiling fog that had taken refuge in his brain. A few more things clicked into place: finding Dean in a basement, tripping over a tree root, a fight…

"We were fighting a ghost…"

"Not a ghost, ghosts. There were two, and they seemed to cancel each other out. I just don't know how."

"Well, it could be their energies. A negative spirit and a positive one, or they could have a history together…"

"Thank you, Sam, for the theories. I was hoping those could be put off until we got out of here."

"And that is…?"

"Sunrise. Jeez, next time avoid hitting your head when you fall."

"I fell?" Sam tried to remember that, but it was like trying to read _Moby Dick_ in invisible ink.

"Yeah, you cracked your head on a step," Dean replied trying to subtly pull his jacket closed around him, a visible shiver ran through him. "Look can we get out of the open? Please."

"Sure," Sam muttered. _Crap._ This was going to suck, big time…

_**Supernatural**_

How they made it back to the tent was beyond Dean's comprehension. He lost track of the number of times Sam tripped, nearly knocking both of them to the ground. Each time jostled his leg until he could no longer lie to Sam when he was asked if he were okay. Not that he didn't try, but it was kind of hard to do when he was speaking through clenched teeth.

If the questions weren't annoying enough, Sam kept up a constant stream of apologies. As necessary as they seemed, Dean didn't want to hear them. He just wanted to sit down, and hope the tilting went away.

The tent was exactly where they had left it; albeit wetter than earlier (the constant sprinkling rain was really pissing Dean off). Sam managed to get Dean inside without causing too much pain. Or he did until he lost his grip and dropped him.

Dean landed heavily on his wounded leg, his vision graying. He heard Sam shout his name, but he couldn't be sure where his voice came from. He must have lost time afterward, because when he came back to himself his head was resting on something soft, a jacket was covering his shoulders.

"Dean," he heard someone, close-by, say. It took his foggy brain a second to figure out who the voice belonged to, but when it came to him he whispered, "Sam?"

"Yeah, I'm here," Sam said, his flashlight o' pain clicking on and illuminating the tent. A shaggy headed face appeared in Dean's line of sight, a look of pure worry etched across it. "I am so…"

"If you finish that sentence I will punch you," Dean replied surprised at how dry his throat was. He tried to push himself up, but a wave of dizziness sent him back down. Things were not looking good for him, and he did not like that. "I'm fine, Sam," he said quickly when his brother opened his mouth to speak again.

Taken aback for a second, Sam managed to recover himself and say, "Bull crap, you look more like a ghost than most ghosts we've fought."

"And you need a haircut," Dean murmured attempting to check his watch, figure out how long he'd been out.

"About ten minutes," Sam responded to Dean's unasked question, moving away from Dean to the corner. He returned a few seconds later with a water bottle. "Here," he said offering Dean the bottle. Sam tried to help his brother sit up, but Dean waved him away and pushed himself into a sitting position. When he started to list to the left, Sam used his shoulder to keep him upright.

Dean managed to get the cap off the bottle after the third try; he just couldn't focus long enough on the task. His hands were shaking so hard half the bottle ended up sloped down his front before he could take a drink. He barely took two sips before the bottle started to slip from his hands. Sam managed to grab it before it could fall to the floor.

"Do you want some more?" Sam asked offering Dean the bottle again. Dean shook his head once, his eyelids starting to droop. He had no idea how he could be so tired, it was hardly a work out getting a frigging cap off of something and taking a drink.

"Hey, hey," Sam exclaimed catching him as he started to fall again.

"Sam, m'tired," Dean muttered his eyes sliding closed.

"Yeah, but do you think sleeping is the best thing right now?"

At that point Dean didn't care, nor did he really take in what Sam said. He just wanted to sleep; it was all he was asking for. And despite the fact that Sam continued to speak, coax him into staying awake, he didn't listen. For the first time-useless, nerdy crap aside-he didn't listen to his little brother. It felt wrong, but he was already asleep before he could allow himself to really care.

_**Supernatural**_

Sam let his brother's head rest on his bag, an irrational feeling of guilt rolling through him. A part of him kept telling him he could have done a better job at keeping Dean awake, the other part-a much weaker part-knew it was ridiculous to think like that. Regardless of which part was right, Sam couldn't think about that at that moment.

He crawled around Dean, stopping short of his injured leg. He grabbed their first-aid kit, dropping it next to him. Sam started digging inside pulling out clean bandages, a pair of scissors, and a couple small packets of Neosporin. He would have stitched Dean's leg up if they were in cleaner accommodations, and if Dean hadn't used the rest of their stitching thread on his jacket the other day.

Sam untied his mangled shirt, tossing it in the corner. He unwrapped the bandages from his brother's leg next, adding them to the bloody pile. Carefully, he used the scissors to cut away Dean's bloody jeans, stopping a few inches above the injury. Spreading the fabric apart, wincing when he pulled some of it loose from the bloody mess, he got his first look at the cut. It was an ugly, jagged gouge that quite possibly, hell definitely, needed medical attention. And Sam would get that for his brother, if they ever got off this fricking island.

He tore the packets of Neosporin open with his teeth, slathering the medication across his brother's cut. Sam doubted the company that manufactured Neosporin had this in mind for their product, but it was the best he could do. He would have used something stronger, but as usual Dean forgot to restock the first-aid kit. The only reason they had clean bandages and the travel packets of Neosporin was because Sam had grabbed some from a med-student friend of his before they left Stanford-two months ago.

Once satisfied with his crude work, Sam rewrapped Dean's leg making sure the bandage was tight but not so tight he risked cutting off circulation. It was the best he could do until he could get Dean some help.

Rain continued to patter on the roof of their tent, a breeze blew past causing the fabric to expand in and out. Sam shivered, grabbing his bag from the floor. He dug inside, extracting his hoodie, and pulled it on. It was a little better, but not by much. He re-zipped his bag, using it to prop Dean's leg up.

He checked his watch, using the aid of his flashlight, and groaned. It was only one-thirty; they had around five and a half hours before help showed up. Panic took hold seconds later. Sam glanced over at Dean, who hadn't moved once since falling asleep, his heart thudding in his chest. He didn't know if his brother could hold on that long, especially if his leg started to bleed again. Panic quickly turned to sorrow at the thought of losing his brother, so soon after Jessica.

_No, _his brain snapped at him, _don't you dare think like that. If anyone can survive until morning it's Dean. You know this. You've seen how stubborn he is. You just have to believe in him._ And if there was anyone Sam could believe in, it was his brother…

_**Supernatural**_

**I wonder what else I can put these two through. I guess next chapter we'll find out.**

**Until next time…**


	10. Chapter 10

**Thanks for reading, it was much appreciated. I hope you guys review and I'll catch ya in the next chapter.**

**I wish I owned these guys, but that'll never happen. Oh well...**

**Bye...**

_**Supernatural**_

Sam had to move, his muscles were cramping up from being in the same position for nearly three hours. Making sure Dean was situated, he unzipped the tent's flap and pulled himself free.

Slowly he started working out the kinks, letting his aching joints pop back into place. Once finished he began to walk, allowing circulation to return to his feet and legs, making sure the tent was just in view.

While he was outside, realizing his bladder was pretty full, he decided to relieve himself of his burden. He ducked behind a tree and did his business. He was just finishing up when he heard a panicked voice practically scream his name.

He took off toward the tent, crashing through fallen leaves, sticks, and around trees. He almost skidded when he dove back into the tent.

"Dean? What's wrong?" he asked feeling about as scared as his brother looked. Paper white skin, green eyes bloodshot and wide in a combination of worry and fear, the only thing keeping him from collapsing was his hand: Sam could honestly say his brother had seen better days.

Sam scooted towards Dean, giving him a worried look. It had been a while since he had seen that much raw emotion on his brother's face. A long, long while.

"Hey, what's wrong?" Sam repeated quietly, letting his hand ghost through his brother's hair.

"I... Where were you?" the scared look vanished, unfocused green eyes-etched with worried anger-met Sam's.

"I went out to stretch my legs," Sam replied letting his brother's agitation go. He understood what Dean was going through, enough so that he could practically feel the worry gnawing away at his stomach. It wouldn't help anything by arguing with Dean. It would probably only make matters worse.

"Oh, well, you could have woke me up," Dean grumbled running his free hand through his hair. He winched when his fingertips nicked the gash across the back of his head. Guilt began battling with the worry over Sam's stomach.

"Sorry," Sam mumbled sitting back on his heels. He wasn't sure what he was apologizing for, there were so many things since the hunt started, but an apology sounded right for some reason.

"Thought I told you to stop apologizing," Dean snapped wetting his dry lips. Sam took the hint, snagging the half-empty water bottle off the floor. He loosened the lid, handing it over to Dean. He watched his brother remove the cap, with shaking fingers, and try to take a drink. Again, half of it ended up down his front. Taking pity on the injured hunter, ignoring the glare he got, Sam took the bottle between his hands and helped his brother drink.

Once Dean was done he took the bottle away, sitting it aside. He studied Dean for a second, noting that Dean was definitely in pain. It was so bad he wasn't even trying to hide it, just another thing that had Sam worrying. Instead of asking Dean if he were okay, Sam opted to dig in their bags for the Tylenol.

He found the bottle at the bottom of the first-aid kit, popping the child-safety lid off. He shook out two, handing the pills over to Dean without so much as a protest. He helped his brother take a drink of water, the pills sliding down Dean's throat.

"Are you tired?" Sam asked noting the drooping of his brother's eyelids.

"A little," Dean admitted, a shiver ripping through him. The younger Winchester moved to sit next to his brother, allowing the older to lean against his shoulder. Sam snatched his jacket off the floor, where it had fallen after sliding from Dean's shoulders, covering his brother with it again.

"D'you remember that story Dad used to tell?" Dean asked abruptly, a smile evident in his voice.

"You mean the one where he single-handedly took out three werewolves, saving Caleb in the process?"

"Yeah, that story was great." Dean fell silent, Sam sure he had gone to sleep, until he muttered, "I wish Dad were here."

Sam didn't know how to respond, several things rolling through his head, but didn't have to. Dean already burrowed deeper into his makeshift blanket and gone back to sleep.

A part of Sam wanted to find their father, if only for Dean's sake, while the other part was iffy on the reunion. He and John hadn't exactly parted on the best of terms. Hell, they barely parted without a fistfight. And poor Dean had been caught in the middle, as usual.

_**Supernatural**_

_**2001...**_

_ Sam had gotten the letter a week ago, two months after he had graduated. He had used Caleb's address to send and receive the answer he had been impatiently awaiting. At first he was ecstatic, he was finally going to get out, but his celebration ended when he realized he had to tell his father and brother._

_ He had been meaning to tell them, but it was never the right moment. John was either too pissed, too tired, or too drunk to really listen. And he didn't want to hurt Dean, with his little boy's dream of never losing what little family he had left._

_ But the fall semester was rapidly approaching and he had to get to California before freshmen orientation in September. He had to come up with a plan and quick._

_ He had been reading a book on Greek gods, absorbed in its pages, when he heard the the __**smack**__ of paper hitting wood. He looked up, eyes landing on a thick envelope on the dilapidated coffee table in the piece of crap house they had been squatting in._

_ "Where did you get that?" he snapped pointing at the envelope._

_ "Were you going to tell me?" Dean asked heatedly ignoring Sam's question._

_ "You went digging in my stuff, again, didn't you?" Sam pushed himself to his feet, towering over Dean, his book landing on the floor with a audible __**thud**__._

_ "Were you going to tell me?" Dean repeated looking up at his brother._

_ "Yeah."_

_ "When? On the bus ride to California?"_

_ "I just... Look, this life if great for you and Dad, but..."_

_ "But what, Sammy?" a voice said, both brothers turning to see their dad leaning in the door frame of the living room. His arms were folded across his chest, an unidentifiable look on his face. He waited for Sam to continue speaking._

_ "It's just, this job you two do, it's not for me. So, I applied to Stanford and got accepted. I've got a full ride and everything. I can get out, go to college." There he told them. The ramifications be damned, because he told them._

_ It was quiet for a few seconds, a pin could drop and everyone would have jumped. John was obviously trying to wrap his head around what he was just told. Finally the older hunter took a deep breath and said, "No."_

_ "I'm sorry. No?"_

_ "That's right, no. You aren't going."_

_ "N...not going?" Sam stammered in total disbelief. He avoid Dean's eyes, not wanting to know what his brother was thinking._

_ "Being a hunter isn't a job, Sammy. It's life."_

_ "Life?" Sam gaped having a feeling where the conversation was going._

_ "Yeah, life, and you have no time to screw around with imaginary friend and an imaginary life that you can never have. You know damn well that connections like that, like school, will be one long weakness..."_

_ "One long... Dad, don't you see, I don't belong here. This life isn't for me..."_

_ "No Sam, don't _you_ see. You'll put everyone you meet in danger, get them killed because that is the price we pay. You know that and there's no looking back."_

_ "So says the guy who does nothing but look back. You live in the past all the time."_

_ "Shut up," John snapped taking a step toward his son._

_ "Why because you said so. No Dad, this time I won't shut up. This time I'm doing something for me. Stanford is the only thing I can count on."_

_ "Family is the only thing you can count on," John growled._

_ "How? When you aren't out hunting you're either drunk or yelling! You've never been there for Dean or me!"_

_ "I tried my best!"_

_ "But your best just wasn't good enough._

_ "Sammy..." Dean started to protest._

_ "No, Dean, don't defend him. He doesn't give a shit about us, and he never will."_

_ "You ungrateful..." Dean threw his weight into his father's shoulder, stopping him before he could do anything drastic. Sam, however, took no notice. He snatched his envelope off the table and stormed toward the door._

_ "You walk out that door don't you think about coming back," John snarled still trying to break Dean's hold. Without turning back, Sam opened the door and left. Slamming it behind him._

_**Supernatural**_

**Present Day...**

John's parting words still bounced around Sam's head, years later, while he sat in a cramped tent on a stupid island in Michigan. Thinking back, he always wondered what Dean had thought of the confrontation. But Dean being Dean, Sam was pretty damn sure he'd never really find out.

He glanced over at Dean, who hero-worshiped the man who had practically kicked Sam out of their family. Sometimes, if he squinted hard enough, he could see what Dean saw when he looked John. But mostly he just saw a man who missed the woman that he loved. _I guess Dad and I have more in common than just about anyone now_, Sam thought wearily looking away from Dean.

He checked his watch, groaning when he read the time: 4:45. They still had over two-hours until Bernie showed up. Two more hours on this stupid, fucking island.

His head suddenly gave a nasty throb, enough to make his eyes screw up in pain. Blindly he reached out, snatching the Tylenol off the floor. He shook out three, downing all three of them with the lukewarm water Dean had been drinking.

He gave the medication a few moments to work, the pain slowly ebbing away to a dull stab between his eyes. It wasn't much, but it was a start.

Sam leaned his head back, tapping his fingers against the tent's floor. He had never been good at waiting. He liked to think his patience level was higher than Dean's, a lot higher, but he still couldn't stand the not knowing. It might have been the side-effect of so many hospital visits or the many nights he didn't sleep waiting for his father to get home. Or it could be because of nights like this, not sure what was going to happen in the hours that could have been spent at a doctor, watching his sick/injured family member through the night. Whatever the case, Sam probably would never be content with waiting.

His watch continued to tick down the minutes, Dean's doing the same thing until the only sound in the tent was breathing and ticks. He could last two hours, damn it. They both could. He just had to have a little faith.

He suddenly felt tired, exhausted. The two ticking watches were doing a damn good job at lulling him to sleep. Before he could stop himself, his eyes had already slid closed, his fingers had stopped tapping. The ticking suddenly cut off, Dean's shallow breathing following as he fell asleep...


	11. Chapter 11

**Thanks for reading, I own nothing, and here's hoping I catch ya in the final chapter... Should there be a final chapter? Let me know...  
**

**Bye...**

_**Supernatural**_

Dean's mouth was dry, his throat practically on fire when he tried to swallow. He peeled heavy eyelids open, his vision blurry for a second before snapping back into focus. For a split second panic seized him, he couldn't remember where he was, but it quickly lifted when the memories flooded him.

He pushed himself away from whatever he was leaning again, a jacket falling from his shoulders, and he looked around. A light nearly blinded him, his eyes slamming closed automatically.

"Sorry, did I wake you?" a familiar voice exclaimed sending a spike of pain through Dean's head. The light moved from his vision and a book was put aside with a familiar _flop._ Dean blinked a couple times, waiting for the annoying balls of light to dissipate, before turning toward the voice.

Sam's face was pale and puffy, his hair sticking up slightly, his hazel-green eyes bloodshot. There was no doubt in Dean's mind that his brother had been asleep recently.

"No," he responded to Sam's question, realizing a moment too late that it took him way too long to respond. The worry was evident on his brother's face. "Did you just wake up?" he asked hoping to distract Sam before he asked the ever annoying 'are you okay?'

"Been up a few minutes. Just flipping through Dad's journal." Dean noticed their father's journal sitting on the floor of the tent, he wondered how his brother could go from the grogginess of waking up to research without the help of coffee. It was truly a mystery he had no time to piece together.

"What time..." talking was starting to hurt, Dean really needed some water in his system. He tried clearing his throat, wondering for a second if tiny men were jabbing him in the esophagus, and managed to rasp out, "What time is it?"

"A quarter to five," Sam replied snagging a half-full water bottle off the floor. He handed it to Dean, giving him a cautious look. Thankful his hands had settled some of their shaking, Dean was able to take the bottle without a problem. He actually took a sip of refreshing water without slopping half the bottle down his front.

He ended up draining the whole bottle, letting the empty container fall to the floor. He felt marginally better, still thirsty but not so parched his throat burned when he tried swallowing or talking.

Thirst aside, his leg hurt, his head hurt, his muscles were cramped, and-to his dismay-he was still tired. _What the hell,_ he sluggish brain ground out. _You just woke up._

"You okay?" Sam asked his worried face swimming in his vision. Dean sat there for a second, the question almost foreign to him, until his brain managed to comprehend the two words. He nodded once, not quite sure why he was lying. _To protect Sam, moron_, his brain managed to churn out. Yeah, that sounded about right. He looked Sam in the eyes and said, "I'm fine, Sammy," and flashed his brother a smile.

"Right," Sam responded giving Dean a skeptical look. He glanced down at Dean's leg, the older brother's eyes following the younger's. Dean's jeans, stained with the brownish-red of dried blood, were cut-away, revealing a bandaged wound with a little blood seeping through. It took his brain a second to produce what had happened, the image making him internally cringe. _Maybe lying isn't such a good idea_, a small voice said when his head gave a wicked jolt of pain.

"Dean?" concerned Sam was back, damn he must have winced. "Come on, man. Tell me the truth. How are you doing?"

"My leg hurts, dude, okay?. My head hurts, my muscles are cramped, and I'm tired." he sure hoped that didn't sound as whiny aloud as it did in his head.

"I understand that Dean," Sam started sounding as if he were talking to a five-year-old with a skinned knee. "But there's not much we can do about that just yet. I'll get you help as soon as I can."

"Please tell me you aren't suggesting we go to a hospital. Come on, Sam. I don't need a hospital. Just a couple shots of whiskey and some pain pills. You can stitch this up without a problem."

"No Dean, I can't. Please, just get checked out for me." Sam flashed Dean his puppy dog look, and the older brother heard himself agree. As much as he hated hospitals, he would go for Sam.

He sat in silence for a few seconds, letting his eyes roam around the tent, both landing on their father's journal again. "What were you reading about?" he asked curiously.

"Just working on my theory. About how those two spirits canceled each other out," Sam replied glancing at the journal, too.

It took Dean a second to remember what Sam was referring to, but when he did he met Sam's eye and said, "And?"

"I can't be sure, but I was comparing our case to one Dad had back in '97. He was trying to clear out a ghost in this old house, came across a second one he didn't know about, and both seemed to attack each other when they came face-to-face."

"That's what happened with Jeremy and the other ghost. But wouldn't they have destroyed each other a lot sooner, you know, if all it took was for them to see each other?"

"Dad had a theory about that, too," Sam said in one breath, snatching their father's journal off the floor. His long fingers flicked through the pages. Finding the particular passage he wanted, he shined his flashlight on the words and began to read, "'_James Barnett was killed May 8, 1785, the same day as his brother Nicolas. Nick had murdered him before shooting himself. Although James haunted the house all the time, Nick seemed to only appear on the anniversary of his death. Perhaps that is why neither have confronted each other, the fact that nobody stepped foot in the house during the 8__th__ of May...'"_

_ "_So, Dad thinks one spirit is triggered by human presence..." Dean started kneading his aching head with his fist.

"...while the other only appears on the date he died. Yeah. But like I said, I can't be sure. I have to do some research, find out who this other ghost is, and compare his death with the date..."

"You be sure to do that," Dean muttered around a yawn. He was still so tired, something he couldn't totally blame on his injuries this time. Most of the time, when Sam spoke about research and reading, he got sleepy. It wasn't his fault that what his brother found fascinating bored him.

"Hey, Dean, stay awake man," his brother said, bringing him back to reality with a little shake. Dean groaned in protest, pushing his brother away from him.

"What?" he snapped glaring at his shaggy haired, baby bro. "I'm awake."

"Good, keep it that way. I'm not sure letting you go back to sleep would be entirely wise. Not after the amount of blood you lost..."

"...on top of a concussion, I get it." Dean wasn't sure he could stay awake. It was a feat already to stay sitting up, his eyes so close to slamming shut again. "Hey," Sam said quickly, his voice a half octave higher than normal, "why don't you tell me a story."

"What?" Dean asked taken aback. He was awake now. "You're not seven, Sam."

"I know, but you used to tell the best stories."

"Yeah, when you were _seven_ and couldn't sleep," Dean pointed out but still finding the suggestion funny.

"Humor me," Sam said with a flash of the puppy dog look. _Damn that look_, Dean thought bitterly, but still took a deep breath and asked, "What kind of story do you want?"

Sam sat in silence for a moment, his bottom lip tucked between his teeth. Dean could practically hear the wheels and knobs turning in his head, his big brain churning out the most ridiculous idea he could think of. One time, Dean had to put together a story about a king who had to save his queen from a dragon. Where ever Sam got his imagination, it sure wasn't from him or their dad.

Finally coming to a decision, Sam met Dean's eyes and said, "What happened the night I left? Between you and Dad?" it was an innocent enough question, one anyone had the right to ask, but that night wasn't the best memory in Dean's life. Actually he would do well to forget it.

"Sammy, can't you pick something else?" he asked wearily, looking slightly to the left so he didn't have to see the look of disappointment on his brother's face.

"It's Sam, and no. It's something I have always wanted to know. I mean, I know you and Dad went hunting afterward, but what about in the hours after I left? What about then?"

"Come on, Sam..."

"Please, Dean." Damn, Dean had never been good at telling Sam 'no.' It was the reason Sam always got the last of the Lucky Charms, despite the fact that Dean wanted them. So, he took a deep breath and said, "You had just slammed the door...

_**Supernatural**_

**2001...**

_ Dean felt numb, his heart stammering to a halt in his chest. He felt someone knock against him, sending him back a step, but he didn't care. All that mattered was Sam had just left, he had just abandoned them. He was gone._

_ He couldn't breathe, panic gripping him. Why couldn't he breathe? Was he dying? No, he didn't want to die. His vision started to gray, his legs going to jelly. _Grape or strawberry_, he mind tried to joke, but to no avail. As he started to fall, a pair of strong arms caught him around the middle and lowered him to the ground._

_ "Dean... you okay?" a broken voice questioned, full of concern. At first Dean thought it was Sam, even tried to say his name, but then he remembered his brother had just walked out on them. Had just abandoned them. It wasn't him. And he still couldn't breathe._

_ "Hey, breathe. Come on, breathe," the voice said sounding nearly panicked. He felt someone grab his hand, resting it on their broad chest. As the voice continued to speak, Dean felt the chest vibrate against his palm. "Breathe with me. In." he tried. "Out." Really he did. "In." he was starting to calm down. He followed the instructions of the voice, keeping up a constant streams of slow breathes until he was able to take in a normal amount of air._

_ His vision started to clear, a worried, bearded face swimming in his eyesight. He realized it was his dad, who had a tight hold on his hand. "Dad?" he rasped out, running a shaky hand down his face. He couldn't believe he just had a panic attack in front of his father._

_ "You okay?" John asked him letting his hand go. Emotionally he wasn't, but John cared more about the physical condition of him- sharing and caring not the older man's favorite thing-so Dean nodded._

_ "Good," John growled pushing himself to his feet. Dean couldn't tell how his dad was doing about Sam's sudden departure. The man had a better mask than anyone he knew. "Take another minute then pack your crap. We're leaving." the oldest Winchester stalked away from his son, toward the small back bedrooms._

_ "But Dad..." Dean started realizing John was suggesting they leave Sam behind. No, they had to go after him, talk some sense into that bullhead of his. He couldn't do this to them, leave the family like that._

_ "Now Dean." Dean had never been able to ignore John's orders. And despite wanting to go after Sam, beg him to rethink what had just happened, he just couldn't defy his father. So, instead, he pulled himself to his feet and headed down the hall toward Sam' and his room..._

_**Supernatural**_

**Present Day...**

"...I packed our crap and Dad and I headed east." Silence followed the story, Dean pretty certain he probably should have sugar coated the tale with a big, fat, streaming pile of lies. He knew he was correct when he noticed the sea of emotions crossing his brother's face. Now Sam was going to want to talk about it, like he always did.

Finally, after thinking over what he wanted to say, Sam opened his mouth and whispered, "Dean..."

Okay, that was enough talking for the older brother. Holding up his hand to cut off his brother, he said, "Don't worry about it, Sam. Really. It was a long time ago. The past, keep it there. I do not want a chick flick moment."

"Fine," Sam sighed, "we won't talk about it."

"Thank you."

They sat in silence, the _pitter-patter_ of rain on the roof not helping Dean's fight to stay awake. If it wasn't for Sam suddenly blurting out, "Do you wanna play cards?" he probably would have been out.

"What?" Dean asked raising an eyebrow.

"Cards? Do you wanna play?" the younger Winchester grabbed his bag off the floor, digging around inside until he extracted a battered deck of playing cards, tied together with an old rubber band.

"No way," Dean exclaimed taking the cards from Sam. "My super hero playing cards. I looked everywhere for these. Where did you find them?" he glanced down at a picture of The Flash.

"I found them under the seat in the Impala. Don't you ever clean under there?"

"Occasionally," Dean replied trying and failing to remember the last time he cleaned under his seat. It had to be the year before Sam graduated, maybe earlier. "So, you wanna play Five Card Draw? Texas hold 'em?"

"Oh, I know the perfect game," Sam replied with a smile.

_**Supernatural**_

"Crazy eights," Dean said quickly, smacking himself with his palm when Sam shook his head. "You're too late, dude," his brother replied laughing. "Draw two cards."

"Damn it," Dean growled picking up a couple cards. A jack of hearts and a seven of clubs joined his two of clubs. The suit being played was a diamond, a six of diamonds to be exact, so he had crap.

"Go Francis," he snapped. Sam rolled his eyes, but otherwise ignored his brother's nickname for him. He thought a minute, his hazel-green eyes locked on his cards, then set one down and promptly said, "Crazy eights."

"A four of diamonds. You're killing me, Sammy." Dean started drawing cards-a two of hearts, a five of spades, another five (this one of clubs). He was starting to get pissed, until he drew a four of hearts.

"There," he said laying the card down.

"Thanks," Sam replied and laid his last card onto the pile. "And Sam Winchester wins again. He is the king of Crazy Eights."

"Shut up."

Sam smiled, glancing at his watch. "Wow, it's ten to seven."

"Are you serious?" Dean questioned glancing at his own watch.

"No, I'm Sam," his brother replied with a small smile.

"What?"

"Never mind. Let's start packing up."

They slowly started putting their stuff in their bags, Dean collecting and pocketing his super hero playing cards. Once their things were packed, Sam unzipped the tent's entrance and pulled himself free first. Dean followed, mindful of his leg. Once he was free from the confines of the cramped space, he was relieved to see that it had stopped raining.

Sam offered him a hand, that he took. Dean was pulled to his feet, pain shooting up his leg. He was swaying back and forth, Sam helping him sit down on the stump close to their camp. He then proceeded to take down their tent, packing away the materials into Dean's bag and tossing the stick his brother had used earlier into a close-by bush. He pulled his backpack across both shoulders, shoving Dean's duffel into the weapons bag. He pulled that bag over his left shoulder, looking like a guy who had just been burdened with his girlfriend's crap on a vacation.

"You ready?" he asked turning to Dean.

Despite the fact that he was a little dizzy, and the swaying was about to come back, Dean nodded. Sam grabbed him under his left arm, pulling him to his feet. Before Dean could fall, his leg close to collapsing under him, his arm was pulled across his brother's shoulder. He felt Sam snake his arm across his waist, keeping him up.

"Okay, which way?" Sam asked glancing around.

Dean thought a minute, mapping the island out in his head. They had come from the west, and probably were northwest now. So the best course would be to go right. Dean told his brother this and both started the long trek through the woods.

They were hardly walking three minutes when Dean felt the familiar warmth of blood start to run down his leg. _Damn it_, his wound had reopened. Instead of informing Sam, who was already having a hard time keeping him up, he kept quiet and continued to help his brother as best he could.

It was around seven minutes when his vision started to gray, the pain becoming almost unbearable. He had to sit down soon, he could feel himself leaning more and more into his brother. He was hoping Sam interpreted it as fatigue, not the fact that he was losing more and more blood. Dean was trying to ignore how cold he was getting, knowing the chills he was feeling were not because of the weather.

"Hey, I see the lake," Sam's voice exclaimed somewhere close to his ear. Dean couldn't figure out why his brother sounded so far away, he was pretty sure he was standing next to him a second ago. "Do you...? Dean?" Okay, now why did Sam sound so worried? And why was everything becoming fuzzy? And why couldn't he keep his damn eyes open?

"Dean? Hey, c'mon stay awake." Dean was lowered to the ground, aw the blessed ground. He didn't even mind that it was muddy, and he was too cold to really take in the temperature. Somewhere in the distance he could hear a motor running, Sam's voice yelling over it. Before Dean could ask what his brother was screaming about a wave of darkness finally swept him up...

_**Supernatural**_

**I figured if Sam could have a flashback so could Dean. If he's a little OOC I am sorry.**

**Anyway, gotta go...**


	12. Chapter 12

**Thanks for all the support: the reviews, the alerts, just reading in general. I hope to catch ya in the next story and I OWN NOTHING**

**Bye...**

_**Supernatural**_

_ The lingering smell of her shampoo was intoxicating: strawberries and cream. He buried his face in her pillow, wondering where she had was. He made to turn onto his back, to call her name, but froze when he noticed the charred remains hovering over him._

_ It had once been a familiar woman, the woman that he loved. A scream caught in his throat as she rasped out, "You did this to me." her blackened hands reached for his throat, "YOU DID THIS...!"_

Sam jerked awake, his heart thudding against his chest. He ran one shaky hand through his hair, rubbing his aching neck with the other. God, he hated those stupid nightmares.

"You okay?" a woman's voice said startling him. He glanced over, eyes landing on a plump, forty-something blonde. She was standing over Dean's bed, pen poised over his chart, giving Sam a worried look. Her name tag said R. Teague.

"Yeah," the younger Winchester replied sitting up straighter in the uncomfortable hospital chair he had been asleep in. He let his eyes fall on his brother's still form, wondering when he was going to wake up. Dean was hooked up to one IV-the second one, full of blood, having been removed the day before. A nasal canal sat across his face, the heart monitor he was attached to giving off a steady beeping sound.

Dean's color had improved since he had been admitted, three days before. He had to be given a lot of blood, his doctor certain that if he hadn't been given medical attention he would have died. Sam still couldn't think about that possibility without his stomach clenching in fear.

"So, how is he?" Sam asked clearing his throat, looking back at the nurse as she put Dean's chart back at the foot of his bed.

"Well, his blood pressure is up, his vitals are strong, and his leg is healing nicely. I'm sure he'll be waking up any time now." That's what they had been saying for the past day and a half, but still Dean stayed unconscious. Sam was starting to wonder if his brother would wake up at all.

"You should go home. You haven't left since he was admitted. Don't you miss your own bed?" _Kinda hard to miss something I really don't have_, Sam thought bitterly, but managed to give Nurse Teague a smile and a polite, "I'll go home when Dean wakes up."

"You do know we can call you when he wakes up?" Sam gave the nurse a half-glare and she raised her hands and said, "Fine, don't say I didn't offer." and she left, closing the door behind her.

"Come on, Dean. Wake up," Sam whispered setting his arms, one on top of the other, on Dean's bed and resting his chin on them. Was it so much to ask for a frigging sign of...? Sam's thoughts trailed off when he noticed Dean's fingers twitch. "Dean?" he sat up, watching his brother expectantly.

Dean's eyelids fluttered causing Sam to stop breathing. He waited, keeping a close eye on his brother. Seconds later heavy eyelids opened to reveal a pair of confused green eyes and the younger Winchester let out a relieved and shaky breath. Dean brought his right hand up, trying to pull his nasal canal out, but Sam caught his hand to stop him.

"Leave it, Dean," he said letting his brother's hand go.

"W...Where am I?" Dean croaked out letting his eyes scan the room. He spotted white walls, machines, a dimmed florescent light. His nose crinkled at the antiseptic in the air. "Hospital?" he murmured answering his own question.

"Yeah," Sam replied snatching the bed controller off the hook in hung from. He pressed the button, letting his brother's bed rise so he was sitting up slightly. The change in altitude turned the older brother green for a second, but he managed to push any thoughts of throwing up away. "How'd we..." Dean tried clearing his throat, grimacing at the pain he felt.

"Hold on," Sam said picking up a pink, plastic jug and pouring water in a matching cup. He offered the beverage to his brother, watching as Dean took a couple tentative sips before draining the glass. "Better?'

The older Winchester nodded before continuing with his question, his voice much stronger, "How did we get here?"

"Well, since you didn't tell me your leg had started bleeding again, you ended up passing out from extensive blood loss. Bernie made it to the island about ten seconds after that, and he took us back to his place and called an ambulance. You had me so worried, you idiot."

"I didn't wanna worry you," Dean muttered fighting to keep his eyes open.

"You did such a bang up job on that, Dean," Sam retorted sarcastically. He took a deep breath, really wanting to continue this conversation, but deciding against it. "Look, we'll continue the Q and A later. You should probably rest."

"I just woke up," Dean half-heartedly argued.

"Rest," Sam replied lowering the beg again. The bed was barely back in place before Dean's breath had deepened and he was sleeping again. Sam took another shaky breath, running both his hands down his face. One crisis averted, about a hundred more to go.

_**Supernatural**_

**10 days later...**

After almost two weeks off his feet, Dean was going crazy. The upside, his stitches were being removed today, which meant he didn't have to worry about walking on 'egg shells' while he did simple things: like use the bathroom-something he had been doing since he was two.

The doctor, a different from the one he had in Michigan, told jokes while he worked. Dean found the jokes cheesy, but was too jazzed about being able to hunt again to really mind. Sam, on the other hand, stood in the corner with a pensive look on his face. He was probably trying to piece together what was so funny about the jokes Dr. Hurley was saying.

Or he was thinking about the information they had come up with the three extra days they stayed in Firestone before leaving. Apparently, Humphrey Senior had been killed on that island five months after Jeremy died (a shotgun wound to the head), on the exact date Dean and Sam had stepped foot on the island. The murderer was never caught, but Sam suspected that Jeremy's father might have had something to do with it.

Dean disagreed, he figured Humphrey went back to the island because he thought he saw Jeremy, figured he was still alive-despite what they did to him-and took a shotgun to finish the job. Like Jeremy did with Dean, he shot Humphrey himself. Regardless of the real reason, both spirits were gone. Still no one in the small town of Firestone would step foot on the island.

Once stitch-free, Sam dropped Dean off at the motel and headed into town for dinner. It was fine by the older hunter, he wanted some time by himself anyway. After a week and a half of Sam hovering like a worried mother it was good to be away from him for a while.

Dean flicked on the old clock radio sitting on the night-stand, Styx's _Renegade_ was just starting. He turned it up, singing along to the song. He started packing his stuff, bobbing his head to the music. Once his stuff was put away, the guitar solo blaring, he jumped up on his bed playing air guitar. He was banging his head to the music, singing louder to the song.

The radio clicked off, the sudden silence startling him. He looked around, eyes landing on his brother who was wearing an amused look on his face.

"What the hell are you doing?" Sam asked slowly.

"I was... Why are you back so soon?" Dean stepped off his bed, now aware of the slight twinge of pain in his leg, and sat down on the mattress. He could feel his face burning with embarrassment.

"I forgot my money clip. You know, for the food." Sam picked up the clip off the small, kitchenette's counter. He headed toward the door, freezing with his hand on the door knob. "Tylenol's in my bag." was all he said before opening the door and disappearing outside. As he closed the door behind him, Dean pushed himself to his feet and limped over to Sam's bag.

As he dumped three pills into his hand, putting the Tylenol bottle back amongst Sam's things, he made a mental note not to do that again on a hurt leg. Or when Sam might walk in.

He downed the pills with the help of water and sat down on the couch, flicking the television on. Maybe watching a little craptastic daytime television would be the safer choice. As he flicked through the channels, stopping on an Oprah special on Mad Cow Disease, he shook his head once. He couldn't believe he just did that. He just hoped Sam didn't capture it on video. He would kill his brother if it ended up on YouTube.

**THE END...**

_**Supernatural**_

**This was supposed to be posted next week, but I started writing and couldn't stop. So, it is early. Since it was such a serious story, I decided to end it with a little comedy. I hope ya liked it.**

**Let me know what you think.**

**Bye...**


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